


The Amazing Bouncing Ferret

by GingerTodgers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animagus, Banter, Character Study, Class Issues, Ferret Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts Era, Humor, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Realistic Teenagers, Slow Burn, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-06-27 20:26:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 25,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15692757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerTodgers/pseuds/GingerTodgers
Summary: Draco's got issues. He keeps turning into a ferret, his parents are completely broke, and Potter smells like freshly cut grass on a summer day.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Drarry AO3 Tag Challenge, thank you to Phoenix-acid for organising the challenge and to Kat for encouraging me <3 Thanks also to my wonderful beta, fandom powerhouse tdcat, and to my sensitivity reader, Jeremy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco and Toad Boy try on some robes.

Draco Lucius Malfoy was certain of three things. He knew that his mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. He knew that one day he would fully master his Animagus and stop turning into a ferret during moments of high stress. And he knew that the small scruffy boy standing next to him in Madam Malkin's fitting room was a complete toad.

“What’s wrong with your mouth?” Toad Boy asked, further demonstrating his own toadliness. Standing swathed in metres of fabric and surrounded by thousands of deadly pins, Draco slowly rotated his head 90 degrees and glared at Toad Boy. Bright green eyes blinked back at Draco from behind smudgy glasses and a riot of floppy dark hair.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your mouth, it’s looking weird. Like you’ve got some extra teeth or something.” Green eyes—toad eyes—fixed on Draco’s mouth.

The two boys were only a foot apart, the fitting room was small and stuffy, nothing like the airy front of shop where Draco’s mother was making stilted smalltalk with Madam Malkin. Making sure to keep his sneer firmly in place, Draco cautiously ran his tongue over the back of his teeth. Canines. Small sharp teeth that were starting to grow down and press into soft flesh inside his bottom lip.

“None of your buithneth,” he said, wincing as he heard himself start to lisp. Draco’s transformations didn’t usually come on this quick and he felt a thrill of panic at the idea that he might turn into a ferret in the middle of a fitting.

“I’m not making fun of you,” Toad Boy insisted, leaning closer. “My cousin has braces and the wire came loose once, is that happening to you? Do you want me to call Mrs Malky?”

“Mrth Malky?” Surprised, Draco almost laughed, remembering to keep his lips pressed together at the last moment. “That’ths not her name. Ith Madam Malkin.”

“Yeah, her.” The boy shrugged, still peering at Draco. Thankfully the half-made robes and hovering pins kept him in place, but Draco had no doubt that, given the chance, Toad Boy would have stepped right into Draco’s space for a closer look at his mouth. The thought of which brought on another thrill of panic and Draco felt fur prickle along the collar of his robes.

“Pith off, pleb.” He hissed. Mother didn’t like to hear Draco using Muggle slang but, surely, she’d make an exception. “If I were you I’d worry about that half-breed you came in with and leave my mouth alone.” Mentally congratulating himself on managing to form a sentence without too many “s’s, Draco almost missed the way Toad Boy recoiled.

“Fine,” said the toad, glaring at Draco. “I guess the problem is with your personality, not your mouth.” Draco was desperate to snap back but his canines were growing even longer, forcing him to retreat into silent sneering.

The clock on the back wall ticked and Madam Malkin’s  voice floated back through the thick velvet curtain. Draco reminded himself that this would soon be over. That in a few minutes his mother would gracefully disentangle herself from Madam Malkin and come back to inspect the robes. Narcissa Malfoy would thank Madam Malkin for all her trouble and promise to send an elf to collect the robe. A robe that would never be collected and that Draco would never wear because his mother would recreate it at home. Draco would go to school and everyone would assume that his robes were made by the Diagon Alley robemaker, because Madam Malkin was the best and Malfoys only wore the best.

Thinking about his mother helped soothe Draco’s fraught nerves, it always did. Closing his eyes and trying to ignore the itch as the bottom of his spine began to elongate into a tail, Draco thought back to the last thing she’d said to him.

“You will be careful, darling,” said Narcissa, leaning close to Draco in the entrance way to Madam Malkins. “Stay calm,” she dropped her voice to a murmur, “remember not to be too friendly, tuck that lovely smile away,” a manicured thumb traced the hollow in Draco’s cheek where his dimple was, “and do try to keep... yourself... under control-”

“Yes, mother.” Draco had loudly interrupted her, burning with shame. “Don’t fuss.”

“Oh course,” she smiled, straightening and smoothing her robes. “I’ll return in an hour, Madam Malkin,” she gave the hovering tailor a nod. “I know you’ll take good care of Draco.” A small flutter of her pale fingers from the hand closest to Draco and Narcissa had slipped away to Knockturn Alley.

Within minutes of arriving at the shop, Draco knew that Madam Malkin was suspicious of both his mother’s ability to pay, and of the white fur that was already starting to appear along Draco’s hairline. His spontaneous transformations had tailored off in recent years but Draco still struggled to control his Animagus. Even the mildest form of stress could trigger his white hair to slowly become fur as his brow lowered and his canines... 

“Draco? Your mother is here,” Madam Malkin bustled in, already reaching for the Draco’s robes. “Let’s get you out of these.”

“I think mother would like to thee them,” said Draco. Narcissa would only need a few minutes to memorise the robes, something Madam Malkin seemed well aware of as she tugged the robes over Draco’s head. His budding whiskers caught on the collar. Thankfully Madam Malkin was too busy tidying the robes away to notice, although a pair of green eyes followed Draco as he miserably walked through the curtain.

Narcissa was waiting in the main part of the shop, idly examining a roll of Parisian goblin silk. Her mouth twisted with distaste at the sight of Draco without his robes.

“Finished already?” Narcissa asked, reaching forward to stroke his hair, her fingers faltering slightly as they touched fur.

“Yeth.” Draco winced at the way his teeth slurred the words.

“Not yet,” Madam Malkin cheerfully contradicted him. “We still need to finish the cuffs and decided on a lining. Our Russian damask is very popular this year, although it is rather expensive...” she trailed off, impaled upon an icy glare from Narcissa Malfoy.

“I can assure you that cost is immaterial,” said Narcissa. Draco restrained himself from pointing out the pun, maybe he would tell her later. “-however I hardly wish Draco to appear in identical robes to all the other students,” his mother continued, biting off every word.

“Of-of course not.” Madam Malkin stuttered.

“Perhaps I should see the robes myself, to check that we aren’t purchasing something off the rack.” A delicate shudder moved through Narcissa as she pronounced the last word, edging Draco further behind her. He could feel the fur spreading across his cheekbones and down his back.

Bested by Narcissa, Madam Malkin gave a sullen nod and ducked back through the curtain to retrieve the robes.

“Nearly there, darling.” Narcissa murmured. Afraid to speak, Draco nodded miserably. Being poor was abominable he decided, reaching up to hold his mothers’ hand. A small frill of feathers greeted his touch, a gentle reminder that at least he wasn’t alone. The thought was enough for some of Draco’s fur to smooth back into pale skin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco gains a broom and loses a friend.

Draco knew that people were saying his father bought him a place on the Slytherin Quidditch team. He knew long before that Mudblood Granger threw it in his face, because Draco was the one who started the rumours.

Going to Hogwarts immediately soothed Draco’s ferret. His spontaneous transformations practically disappeared overnight, aside from an embarrassing incident after being caught out of bed by Professor McGonagall. Pale, trembling, and still bewhiskered, Draco had sat in McGonagall’s study while she and Snape whispered to each other behind a Muffliato. Was he going to be expelled? Reported as an illegal Animagus? Would his mother be put in prison? What would his father say? Panicked plans for escape chased each other through Draco’s mind and by the time McGonagall returned to the sitting room he was halfway through another transformation.

“Oh dear me,” said McGonagall as she waved her wand over Draco. A cool, gel-like sensation smoothed along his overheated neck and Draco found himself returning to human form. “There, that’s much better.” McGonagall inspected him over the top of her glasses.

“Are you going to expel me?” Draco asked, swallowing down hot tears and glaring at his hands. “There was a dragon, honestly! It’s Potter and Weasley who should be here, not me and-”

“Professor Snape and Headmaster Dumbledore are dealing with Potter. We are going to talk about you.” McGonagall interrupted him.

“You... you can’t prove anything...” he tried to meet her eyes, vering off at the last minute to inspect the stuffed mouse perched on the mantelpiece.

“Have a biscuit, Malfoy.” McGonagall waved her wand and a tin of shortbread came zooming out from behind the sofa cushions. “Odd place to keep them” some part of Draco’s mind registered, as he automatically reached for a biscuit.

“Th-thank you.”

“You are welcome.” They munched in silence, Draco was careful to cup his hand under the biscuit. Nodding with approval, McGonagall Vanished the crumbs in his cupped hand and leant forward. “I’m sorry I don’t have any tea to offer you. Now,-” she held up a hand to forestall his assurance that tea was utterly horrid and a biscuit was much better. “Unregistered Animagi are illegal and as a Hogwarts Professor I am duty bound to report all incidents involving said Animagi to the Ministry of Magic. Luckily I did not see any unauthorised transformations this evening, otherwise the rest of the week would have been spent buried in paperwork and the potential expulsion of one of my most gifted students.” She eyed Draco in a beady way. Draco eyed her back.

“So...” he licked his lips. “So you’re saying...”

“I’m saying that Hogwarts is fortified with charms to help the young students control their accidental magic and the longer you stay here the less common any accidents will be.” She nodded and Draco realised he had been dismissed.

“Thank you, Professor,” he said, standing quickly and attempting to push the chair back into place. It remained bolted to the floor and he gave up, nervously smoothing his hair as he edged towards the door. “I do, um, I, thank you. This is, thanks. Are you, um,” he felt himself compelled to ask the question, even while his brain screamed to get out and back to bed immediately. “Are you saying that there may have been other students who, um, who...”

“A number of established magical families have latent Animagi traits,” McGonagall smiled. “A few centuries ago Black Animagi, for example-”

“Actually I’m a _white_ ferret,” Draco interrupted her. McGonagall gaped at him. “Oh! Oh you meant the Black family!” Draco tried to backtrack, realising that he had verbally confirmed that he was an illegal Animagus. “Well, yes I can imagine that that would be very... you know...” he fumbled with the doorknob. “You know in a theoretical sense-”

“Please, just leave.” McGonagall shook her head, finally remembering to close her mouth as Draco mouthed “sorry!” and escaped into the corridor.

***

Comforted by McGonagall’s implied promise that Hogwarts’ magic would help him control his transformation, Draco returned for his second year in high spirits. He had spent the summer practising on his broom in the Manor Grounds, learning all the kinks and quirks of the Cleansweep Six his mother had picked up on Knockturn Alley. It was a bit scuffed and had a habit of darting straight up into the air when alarmed, but a few Glamours turned it into a passable Nimbus 2001. Having learnt to compensate for his broom’s rather hysterical tendencies, Draco was confident in bagging a spot on the Slytherin Quidditch team.

Even Potter’s crass bid for attention via that flying car couldn’t dampen Draco’s mood, although he was a bit sick of the Muggle-born Slytherins comparing Potter to someone called James Bond. As if a Muggle with a gun could in any way compare with the daring feats of Gilderoy Lockhart.

This thought was at the forefront of Draco’s mind as he scuttled along the corridor. It was well past bedtime and Hogwarts was silent, the only light came from flickering torches and insomnia-afflicted ghosts. Ideal conditions for Draco to practise controlled transformations and take advantage of his ferret’s night-vision.

The only drawback to bounding around the castle in ferret-mode was that the moving staircases didn't register his presence, leaving Draco to lurk behind tapestries and under armories until one of the patrolling Professors triggered the stairs. The stairs from the Dungeons to the Great Hall were fine, but the swinging staircase from the entranceway was stuck on the third corridor for so long that Draco was seriously considering turning back into a human for a few minutes.

His mission was to reach the Owlery (in ferret form, he ruefully reminded himself) and request permission from his mother to join the Zabinis in their summer Tuscan retreat. Draco found that having a fixed goal helped him maintain the transformation for long periods of time, something his mother had hinted he should focus on in preparation for the Dark Lord's return.

Wouldn't she be pleased when she discovered that Draco had traversed the entire castle in ferret form? And with such good news to impart! An invitation from the Zabinis meant that Narcissa and Lucius could afford to summer on the Amalfi coast, without the added cost of a villa big enough to include Draco.

Blaise Zabini, Draco reflected, was exactly the kind of friend he should be making, rather than that Scarhead Saviour. Unlike Potter, Blaise was positively eager to accept Draco's friendship. Draco liked to think that this was because Blaise appreciated Draco's ready wit and regal Malfoy bearing, although in his heart of hearts Draco knew that it was his own social ambitions that had won the day.

"What are you doing in here?" Greg had asked, squaring up to Blaise during their first night in the Slytherin boys dorms. "You were in with the girls last year."

"And now I'm here," said Blaise, smoothing his robes. "Problem?"

"This is the boys dorm." Greg insisted. "You can't be in here."

"I can and I am." Blaise spoke calmly, chin slightly lifted.

"That... you're not making any sense." Greg cast a desperate glance towards Draco, clearly at a loss.

"Salazar, what does it matter?" Draco had asked, admiring Blaise's handmade Italian leather brogues and the understated gold serpent tiepin, glittering in the firelight. "Still Blaise, I take it?" He stepped forward, holding out his hand. A beat passed and then Blaise nodded and accepted the handshake. "Excellent, you can bunk next to me. Vincent-" Draco redirected his attention. "You can move into the spare bed, take your snoring with you." It wasn't a very good joke, but Blaise laughed and the ice melted away, leaving Draco with a potential new rung on the social ladder.

Only a few months later and Draco's friendliness had already been rewarded with an invite to spend the summer with the Zabinis and a new Nimbus 2001 broom. Upon hearing that her son had made a new friend, Zadie Zabini, had put her latest husband's vaults to good use and splurged on Nimbus 2001s for the whole Slytherin team. Not that anyone was supposed to know, the delivery had been made after dinner and the only reason Draco knew (and got first pick of the brooms) was because he was Blaise's closest friend. Blaise's only friend, really, Draco reflected to himself as he looked up at the still immovable stairs. Maybe he should make an effort to include Blaise more, at least suggest that-

Approaching footsteps interrupted Draco's musings and he readied himself to leap for the stairs.

"The whole team?" Professor Flitwick asked. "All of them?"

"Indeed." Oh sweet Salazar, that was Snape's voice. Slinking back into the shadows, Draco flattened his small furry body to the wall and offered up a prayer that he wouldn't be seen. "Nimbus 2001." Snape responded to something Flitwick had said. He sounded pleased. Or at least, like he was a few feet from Death's door, rather than banging on it with both fists.

"A donation that size, for only one team as well, I don't know what Dumbledore will have to say about-"

"Dumbledore is already aware of Slytherin's generous benefactor." Snape interrupted Flitwick. Above their heads, the staircase began to swing down to where the Professors waited.

"And he's agreed to it?"

"Of course. The usual spells will remain in place," said Snape, referring to the charms all match brooms were treated with to avoid any student having an advantage.

"But the chance to practise with a Nimbus 2001." Flitwick's voice rose in agitation, the sound filled Draco with glee. "That will give Slytherin a great advantage over the other teams. Lucius Malfoy may hold sway with the Ministry but surely Dumbledore-"

"You think Malfoy is the donor?" Snape asked. "Please," he stepped onto the stairs, "everybody knows that Lucius Malfoy is as poor as a church mouse. The man has his wife in homemade robes and that son running around with a Glamoured broom." The stairs began to move away, the rushing in Draco's ears drowned out Flitwick's answer.

_Poor as a church mouse._

The words followed Draco back to the Slytherin dorms, his mother’s owl forgotten.

_Homemade robes._

_Running around with a Glamoured broom._

All the petty humiliations Draco had thought he'd managed to keep hidden. He didn’t sleep that night. Instead he listened to the other boys breathe and seethed with humiliation that their conscious thoughts might be full of how poor the Malfoys really were. Did they know about his robes? He pictured them laughing to each other about his shabby trunk (“a family heirloom”) and the elderly Malfoy owl.

The next morning, his head aching from lack of sleep and his eyes rubbed raw, Draco pulled Theo aside.

“You can’t tell anyone,” he said, guaranteeing that the whole year would know by lunchtime. “My father has donated a clutch of Nimbus 2001 brooms to the Slytherin team, I got first pick, of course, but if you hang around there might be a spare one going.”

Predictably, Theo had sniffed that he didn’t need a free broom and then proceeded to sulk when, as Draco already knew, there were no spare brooms available. Theo’s disappointment soon settled into spite and by the end of the week the castle was awash with the news that Draco’s father had brought him a place on the team.

Draco’s role as the new Slytherin Seeker had been earned well before the brooms appeared, but he continued to feel a sliver on unease whenever he looked at his new, unGlamoured, Nimbus. He avoided Blaise, feigning a headache when they were partnered in Potions and closing the curtains around his bed earlier than usual. It wasn’t that Draco felt guilty, he’d acted in the true spirit of Slytherin, afterall. Still, he never did get around to asking his mother for permission to holiday with the Zabinis. After a few weeks, Blaised asked Theo instead and Draco spent the summer miserably listening to his father rant about how the Potter boy had “stolen” their last reliable house elf.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco wonders if he should make friends with a Gryffindor.

“Oi, Malfoy!” No longer able to ignore the voice repeatedly calling his name, Draco turned to confront the youngest Weasley.

“Nervy Weasel,” he smirked, relishing the way she huffed at the nickname. “Run out of money and here to beg for scraps?” He nodded towards the stadium merchandise stand, groaning beneath the weight of Quidditch World Cup branded robes, kazoos, posters, and what appeared to be some kind of peaked Muggle hat with two miniature cauldrons attached to each side and a straw leading down to the wearer’s mouth. Momentarily distracted by the hat, Draco missed the Weaslette’s response, tuning back in as she asked;

“Have you seen Blaise?”

“Blaise? What do you want with him?”

“Nothing,” she glanced around at the surging pre-match crowds. “So,” hazel eyes darted back to pin Draco in place. “Have you seen him?”

“Not unless he is sitting in the Minister’s private box.” Draco mentally congratulated himself on slipping that into the conversation so early. The Weaselette was bound to run straight back to Potter with the news that the Malfoys had secured the best seats in the stadium and-

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise that sitting in the Minister’s box meant you had to surrender your eyeballs.” The Weaselette smiled sweetly. “Well if you do ever regain your sight please point Blaise in my direction.”

“Hoping to take out a loan?” It wasn’t one of Draco’s best, but the image of all the Minister of Magic’s guests politely removing their eyeballs before sitting down was rather gruesome and he was working hard not to laugh.

“From what I hear that’s more your department,” said Ginny. “Or are you only interested in borrowing brooms?” Her words soured Draco’s mood and he stepped close to her.

“Careful, little girl.” He hissed. “Spreading rumours-”

“From what I hear it’s more like facts, not rumours.” Ginny glared up at him, refusing to give an inch.

“Whatever he told you-”

“Is between him and me. Now. Either tell me where I can find him or piss off.”

“I was here first.”

“And now you’re in my way.”

In the back of his mind, Draco realised that they were both slipping into the kind of dramatics usually only heard on Wizarding Wireless Soap Operas. Judging by the small smile pulling at Ginny’s lips, she was making a similar comparison.

“He won't be interested in you, if that's what you're hoping for.” Draco smiled as Ginny blushed and crossed her arms.

“Maybe I'm not interested in him,” she said. “Come on Draco, didn't you used to be mates? I promise it's nothing bad.” Her words hit Draco in some soft, fleshy part of himself that he usually tried to pretend didn't exist.

“He’s sitting in the second tier. I think. Now. Are you going to tell me why you want to speak to him?”

“No.” Ginny’s smile grew a bit. “But thank you. I _will_ tell you that you’re not a complete berk.”

“You really think so?” Draco plastered on a big fake smile. “Thanks awfully! I guess I’ll just have to ask everyone in Slytherin why Nervy Weasel was searching for Blaise Zabini all over the World Cup stadium.”

“What?” Ginny’s mobile face morphed from teasing to apprehensive. It didn’t make Draco feel as good as he might have expected. “Don’t… You wouldn’t do that.”

“Oh, but I would.”

“I… Alright.” She huffed, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him away from the crowd, behind a Pugnacious Popcorn cart. Draco allowed himself to be towed, fighting to control the whiskers he suddenly felt itching at the end of his nose. “Listen,” she gave his sleeve a shake. “Blaise asked if I could ask George and Fred [Double-Weasel, Draco reminded himself] if they could develop a charm to change a person’s voice. He said it was for a prank he wants to pull on Snape.”

“A prank?” After three months of friendship and two years sharing a dorm with Blaise, Draco was fairly certain that the quiet, serious boy would dance naked in the Great Hall before doing anything even remotely prankish. Although what better way to guarantee that none of his fellow Slytherins would believe Ginny if she _did_ try tell anyone what Blaise was up to.

“-and after all that they finally finished it and I want to give it to him before the kickoff. There.” Ginny finished winding up which had probably been a very boring story and gave Draco’s sleeve _another_ shake. “Happy?”

“But what about-”

“Ginny? Are you alright?” Blaise’s quiet voice sent Ginny and Draco leaping apart.

“Blaise!” Ginny’s voice rose by at least an octave. Maybe she was the one who needed the voice modifier, Draco smugly thought to himself while smoothing his hair and gently pinching his ears until they melted back into human shapes. “I was just asking Malfoy where you were.” Ginny continued, smiling up at Blaise and bouncing from foot-to-foot.

“Right,” Blaise’s eyes flicked to Draco. “Well, here I am.”

“Yes,” said Ginny, still smiling.

“So,” said Blaise, starting to smile back at her. “Did you just want to look or…”

“Oh! No, no, I, um…” Ginny glanced at Draco. “I have the thing and…”

Rolling his eyes at Ginny's awkwardness, Draco attempted to side-step the pair of them. It was a bit of a squeeze and he bashed his elbow on the corner of the popcorn cart.

“Well, children.” He spun around, smoothing his hair once more. “This has been delightful but I’m afraid I must join the Minister in the Minister’s private box and-”

“No one cares.” Ginny singsonged, showing a bit of the fighting spirit that had disappeared with Blaise’s arrival.

“I care,” said Blaise. “Do give the Minister my regards. Draco.”

“Right,” said Draco, feeling rather off kilter. “Right, er. Right. See you later, Blaise. GiNERVa.” Ginny’s squeak of outrage followed him across the packed stadium foyer, up the stairs and all the way into the Minister’s box.

***

“Hello darling.” Narcissa greeted him, reaching up to smooth his hair.

“Stop it.” Draco batted her hand away, accidentally catching his thumb on one of her rings.

“Careful.” She patted the seat next to her. “Come sit and tell me how the points work again.”

“You’ve been using that one for decades,” he said, taking the seat next to her and glancing around the box. Narcissa smiled and nodded toward the pitch.

“Tell me anyway.” She was trying to keep him close, Draco realised as he started pointing out the different players. Lucius was talking to Fudge, towering over the Minister like a newspaper about to swat a fly. The other occupants had already taken their seats, a horn blew to signal that the warm-ups were about to begin. Draco scanned the front few rows, looking for messy black hair. Nothing. Feeling vaguely dissatisfied, he sat back, only to realise that Lucius and Fudge had stepped forward and were continuing their discussion directly behind his chair.

“Of course we have your generosity to thank for that,” Fudge was saying. “All these rumours about You Know Who and Dumbledore’s own, ah, eccentricities. We want our graduates to have maximum confidence in the Ministry, both as a governing body and a future employer-”

“Yes, yes.” Lucius interrupted. “Are the Irish really fielding Ryan as first Keeper?” Draco almost turned around to commiserate with his father—what were the coaches _thinking?_ —only to be stopped by Narcissa wrapping a hand around his wrist and giving a quick shake of her head.

Fudge was still talking about the campaign he wanted to run, something about a series of recruitment pamphlets for next year’s Hogwarts graduates, with continued mentions of Lucius’ “generosity”. It was no surprised to Draco that his father appeared to have dropped hints at a large party donation. A relatively new presence at the Wizengamot, Fudge was too green and greedy to understand the discrepancy between Lucius’ words and the Malfoy vaults. A gentle tap on his knee from Narcissa drew Draco’s attention back to the game.

“You know better than to eavesdrop,” she said, speaking low enough that only Draco could hear.

“I wasn’t.” Draco was unable to keep the petulance out of his voice.

“Mm, of course.” Glancing around, as if to admire the crowds, Narcissa continued. “Your father will have his way and you and I must be seen to support him.”

“Even if he’s wrong?” Narcissa’s hissed inhale let Draco know that he had spoken out of turn.

Draco didn’t really think his father was wrong, exactly. He just wished Lucius could find a way to cosy up to the Minister without making empty promises that were likely to alienate Fudge in the future. After all, Draco had his own political ambitions. He was still a little fuzzy on what exactly these ambitions _were_ , but he was fairly sure that having Fudge as an ally could be very useful. Somehow.

When Draco had raised the subject with his father, in as tentative and roundabout manner as he was capable of, Lucius had frostily pointed out that;

“Our financial position may no longer be what it once was but I assure you, my dear boy, that matters are far from desperate.”

“Of course father.” Draco had nodded eagerly. “But a bit of goodwill from Fudge might make it possible to waive the Wizengamot entry fees and-”

“Fudge is puffed-up little upstart who has nothing to recommend him beyond a few decades of Ministry drudgery and the ability to cultivate connections such as myself.” Lucius snapped, raising his voice as Draco opened his mouth to reply. “The day the Malfoys are seen to beg for friendship from the likes of Fudge we may as well throw in our gloves and retrench to the continent.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Narcissa’s quiet voice cut through the tension between Malfoy Jnr. and Snr. The three of them were eating breakfast in the third dining room and Narcissa reached for another croissant as she spoke. “Life on the continent sounds rather charming. Or at least, according to Binky Waldorf.” She raised an eyebrow at Lucius, who chuckled and reached forward to take her hand.

“Would you like that, Cissy darling?” He asked, playing with one of her rings. “Life on a Tuscan farm with Bertie Waldorf drunk by 3pm and Binky rabbiting on about her piles?”

“Bad boy.” Narcissa smiled, tapping the back of his hand with her teaspoon. “You shouldn’t tease. Binky really is in a lot of pain.”

“Not as much pain as I am whenever that oafish husband of hers opens his mouth.” Lucius grinned as Narcissa pretended to wrestle her hand free.

It was, without doubt, the most revolting display Draco had ever witnessed and he would probably be scarred for life. The announcement of which did nothing to stop his parents flirting and so Draco excused himself.

A few days later, the truncated breakfast conversation looped in Draco’s mind as the three Malfoys watched the Irish Beaters fall into formation. High up in the stands, a flash of orange caught Draco’s wandering gaze and he focused his omnioculars on the Weasley clan. Ginny was sat next to a soft, curvy woman who must be her mother and on the other side of her was-

“Potter.” Blood rushed to Draco’s face as the name slipped past his lips. Glancing around, Draco satisfied himself that no one had heard his outburst—Lucius was still talking to Fudge while Narcissa was smiling at something on the pitch—and refocused his omnioculars. Harry Bloody Scarhead Bloody Saviour Bloody Bloody Potter, sitting in the pleb seats with the Weasels and, judging by his gormless grin, having a marvellous time. Draco’s hands tightened on the omnioculars and they squeaked in protest.

Not for the first time, or the hundredth and first time, Draco asked himself why that lurid pack of Weasels was more palatable to Potter than Draco’s own company. Granted, the boy had some questionable views on blood purity, but what was a little bad blood (Draco chuckled to himself) between allies? If Potter wasn’t such a sanctimonious prig, the two of them could be running Hogwarts by now. The Ravenclaws were a law unto themselves but Potter would have brought the prudish ‘Puffs while Draco won the hearts and minds of the more hedonistic Huffles. Draco hadn’t quite worked out how he would accomplish this winning over—maybe a big cake?—but it hardly mattered as Potter had shunned all attempts at friendship.

Speaking of which… Draco refocused his omnioculars. Blaise was almost as easy to spot as the Weasels. The Nott box was nowhere near as grand as the Minister’s but it was impossible to overlook, decked out in the family colours of green and purple like a box of Honeydukes chocolates. Theo was whispering something to Blaise, the two boys bursting into laughter as Draco watched.

The moment passed and Blaise turned his head, looking up towards the 31st row. There was a small smile on his face and a plain silver stud on the collar of his robes. It was extremely discreet and if Draco hadn't seen Blaise less than 10 minutes earlier he might have overlooked it. For the first time since their conversation by the popcorn cart, Draco thought to wonder how Blaise had managed procure Ginny’s help. And whether those same tactics would work on Potter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco discovers an unexpected ally.

Draco’s transformation was as much a surprise to him as it was to the other fourth years. Mad Eye Moody pulled out his wand, pointed it at Draco and, in a moment that would give him nightmares for years to come, Draco just… shrank. 

Moody blinked his lone eye at the appearance of Draco’s ferret and then—egged on by gleeful gasps from the students—flicked his wand and sent the little creature bouncing. Pain slammed through Draco’s body and as he hit the ground for the fifth time he realised: no one was coming to save him.

If any student other than Draco had been attacked by a professor in this way, the Gryffindors might have spoken up. Then again, Draco was fairly sure that no other student was as skilled as he was at antagonising Gryffindor and their rabid attack dogs. Struggling to remember why, exactly, he had decided that would be a good skill to develop, Draco fought to stay lucid. The world was turning dark at the edges, all he could smell was his own fear, all he could hear was jeering laughter.

“Professor Moody! What is the meaning of this?” McGonagall’s voice stopped the bouncing as Draco slammed into the ground one more time. “Is that a student?” Draco’s legs wouldn’t hold him up, magic fizzed through his paws and he curled in upon himself, willing the transformation to hold. Judging by the fumes coming off him, Moody was drunk enough to believe that he was responsible for Draco turning into a ferret.

If Draco was to turn back into a boy, he ran the risk of alerting the big bully to the fact that, actually, Moody’s magic had nothing to do with Draco’s foray into ferretdom. McGonagall was still talking, snapping something about how the school did not use transformation to punish students and dismissing the rest of the class.

“Minerva.” Moody sounded suitably chastised.

“Get out of my sight.” McGonagall’s voice was loaded with enough venom to rival a Tentacula and, opening his eyes, Draco was unsurprised to see Moody stomping off towards the school and that the rest of class had disappeared. Well, almost. Potter and Blaise hovered at the edge of the clearing, individual Notice-Me-Not charms shimmering around them. One of Draco’s favourite things about his Animagus was that charms designed to work on humans had no impact upon the ferret. Although he was struggling to see the benefits in knowing that his ex-friend and current nemesis were watching his humiliation.

“Potter, Zabini. If you insist on disobeying my instructions you may at least make yourselves useful.” McGonagall stepped into Draco’s line of vision. “Malfoy,” her voice was noticeably softer. “Do you feel able to transform back?” Cringing, Draco released his grip on the ferret and grew back into his human body. “Good. Well done. Are you able to stand? Boys?” McGonagall turned to Potter and Zabini, “perhaps you can help Malfoy-”

“I don’t need help.” Draco snarled. A sharp pain zipped across his lower back as he pushed himself up. “They’re just here for the show, aren’t you?” He turned to Potter and Blaise, wincing as the movement set off another burst of pain.

“No!” Potter frowned, his eyes darting up and down Draco’s body. “Just wanted to see if you were alright.”

“A likely story.”

“It’s true,” said Blaise. “Bad form on Moody’s part.”

“Back to the castle, boys.” McGonagall did not dispute Blaise’s claim. “Malfoy, I think it’s best we take you to the infirmary. Zabini, Potter, I expect two feet from both of you on Mildew’s Theorem of Variated Veelas by Monday.

“Yes, Professor.”

“Sorry, Professor.”

Draco smirked at the disgruntled acknowledgement from Blaise and Potter. Unfortunately his smirking muscles seemed to be directly connected to  _ something _ in his left hip and the movement nearly sent him crashing back to the ground.

“Careful,” said McGonagall, casting a discreet statis charm on Draco’s back. Grimacing in thanks, Draco concentrated on picking his way up the hill. McGonagall hovered beside him and Potter and Blaise brought up the rear, talking quietly. It was a bit unnerving and, strain as he might, Draco was unable to pick up more than a few words.

“Unfair-” that was Potter.

“-it in for the Slytherins.” Blaise replied.

“-something we can-”

“Afraid it’s no good-”

“-we should at least try... help him-”

They reached the castle and Potter and Zabini disappeared off to the Great Hall—heads bent close together—while McGonagall led Draco to her study.

“What about the Infirmary?” He asked through clenched teeth. The pain in his back was getting worse and a dull throbbing had started in his left leg.

“Madam Pomfrey will join us here,” said McGonagall, scribbling a note that disappeared in a puff of purple smoke. “I will be speaking to the Headmaster about Professor Moody’s actions.” She continued. “Such disgraceful behaviour will not be tolerated and-”

“Dumbledore won’t do anything.” Draco interrupted. “Father hasn’t made a donation to the school in years and Dumbledore let that monster teach us all through third year.”

“Mr Malfoy.”

“It’s true!” He hated the way his voice sounded so squeaky but he was sore and humiliated and so so cross. “Lupin could have killed us all, it’s hardly a surprise that Dumbledore let another murderer into the school and-

“Draco Malfoy, that is enough.” McGonagall was half out of her chair, leaning across the desk to glare at Draco. “Professor Lupin was an innocent man, persecuted for something he did not ask for and was already making sure he had under control. As you may well find yourself in a similar position one day I suggest that you exercise some of your considerable intelligence and develop a little empathy. Now.” She sat back in her chair, smoothing her robes and fixing Draco with a sympathetic look. “There is little I can say with regards to Dumbledore’s staffing choices, other than that, to my knowledge, he has never  _ knowingly _ invited a murderer to teach at Hogwarts. I am aware,” she held up a hand, “that this is far from reassuring but it is the best I can do. I give you my word that your father’s ability to donate to the school will have absolutely no bearing on how Professor Moody is dealt with and he  _ will _ be dealt with.”

“If you say so.” Draco sniffed.

“I do.”

A quiet pop announced the appearance of a smoking flask of blue potion on McGonagall’s desk. Setting the potion aside, McGonagall unfurled the note.

“Ah. Madam Pomfrey is with a student, she will join us within the hour and says that you can take the potion immediately…” McGonagall trailed off as Draco guiltily finished swallowing the last of the potion.

“Sorry,” he said. “Professor Moody’s attempt on my life was rather painful.”

“Of course.” A small smile flickered across McGonagall’s face and she nodded towards the squashy sofa. “Why don’t you lie down for a while. I will ask the elves to bring you some dinner.”

Draco nodded, moving to the sofa. The potion hadn’t kicked in yet and he lowered himself slowly onto the soft cushions. “What will happen with Moody? Will he be fired?”

“I’m afraid that I cannot say. I will be bringing Professor Moody’s conduct to Dumbledore’s attention and I hope…” McGonagall trailed off again, her features slightly crumpling in on themselves.

“You remind me of my mother,” said Draco, his tongue feeling rather thick and slow. Potion must be kicking in then, he thought. 

“Oh?” The fire was reflected in McGonagall’s glasses, the rest of the lights had dimmed. Draco couldn’t remember if they’d been on in the first place or if she had cast Nox.

“It’s a shame,” he said, struggling to speak clearly as his eyelids dropped. “You want to do the best for me. Like her. But she can’t, because father always has the last word. S’sad, isn’t it?”

“Y-yes I suppose it is.”

“Mothers should have the last word, too. Not just fathers.” Draco knew that he probably wasn’t making much sense, but McGonagall smiled down at him all the same and, as he drifted off to sleep, a soft hand brushed the hair from his forehead.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco hears some home truths.

Lucius had been rather avid that Draco attend Durmstrang, both for the opportunity to learn the Dark Arts and the substantially lower school fees. Narcissa preferred Hogwarts, citing tradition and the lower maiming rates. While Lucius liked to style himself as the doting husband and fond father, by the time Draco’s third year rolled around he had started to suspect that his mother’s offer to sell a few of the Black family heirlooms was the real reason for Lucius’ capitulation.

As Bella and Sirius were imprisoned, Regulus dead and Andromeda exiled—Narcissa had become the only beneficiary of two separate Black family estates. Unfortunately this did little to benefit the Malfoys as Walburga Black spent her last years “enjoying” Narcissa’s inheritance, eventually dying with no more than a handful of sickles to her name and a request that she be buried in her most expensive jewellery. Much to Lucius’ chagrin and Draco’s secret admiration.

The value of the remaining Black heirlooms had been a constant point of contention between Draco’s parents, leading to countless frosty dinners and scorch marks on the second bathroom ceiling.

Years later, as the Durmstrang ship rose from the Great Lake and it’s sullen passengers disembarked, Draco still carried a near visceral memory of his relief at Narcissa’s agreement to fund his time at Hogwarts. The Durmstrang students were brutish and dashing, swathed in thick military-style robes and tapping out hand rolled indigo cigarettes. The Beauxbaton students looked years younger than their Bulgarian counterparts. Laughing and straightening each others powder-blue robes as they fell into place behind their headmistress.  

Yes, Draco firmly concluded, Durmstrang students were to be admired from afar, while the Beauxbaton students were to be won over. Especially those with family estates in the South of France and accounts at Foppintons Fancies.

That said, no one could deny that the Durmstrang students had a certain… 

“Shagability?” Pansy offered, smiling brightly when Draco closed his eyes.

“No,” he said, breathing heavily through his nose. “A certain something. They have a certain something.”

“Is that certain something… in your pants?” Pansy wiggled her eyebrows to the point where they looked about ready to fall off her face.

“And people ask me why we need blood purity laws.” Draco shook his head in exaggerated wonder. Pansy did not respond. “You know,” he pressed on. “Because you watched all those Muggle philms with Millicent and now-”

“I get it.” Pansy made a point of never scowling (“wrinkles, darling”), preferring to pout and smoulder. Darting a glance, while still pretending to be mildly bored by the Durmstrang students’ emergence from the lake, Draco confirmed that she was very much smouldering. Or constipated.

“What’s wrong?” He pressed his shoulder against hers, swallowing a flicker of hurt when she shifted away. Even with their thick cloaks, the Lake chill nipped at fingers and noses. A quick cuddle while they waited for Dumbledore to cease waffling on would have been pleasant. Very pleasant. What a shame Pansy had to ruin it with her mood swings, could it be one of her Moon Days? Draco opened his mouth to ask as much, although thankfully he never had the chance to ask as our story may well have ended right here.

“Nothing.” Pansy sighed, in the manner of a person who has a great deal more than “nothing” on their mind. “It’s just… you shouldn’t make jokes like that. About blood status. I know it’s all in good fun-” Draco uttered a peep of dissention, Pansy carried on regardless “-but it’s a bit awkward for the rest of us.”

“Goodness Pans, when did you become a Muggle-lover?” Draco tried to keep his tone light.

“That’s not it at all,” said Pansy, abandoning her frown-free facade. “It’s one thing to make fun of the squibs, but if you start talking about ‘blood purity’ and ‘mudbloods’ people are going to think you’re a bit… you know.”

“I’m afraid I don’t. Please,” said Draco, decorating his words with frost. “Enlighten me.”

“Deranged.” Pansy had moved from frowning to outright glaring.

“I… Excuse me?”

“You always take things too far. There are Mudbloods-Muggleborns-” she hastily corrected herself, “-in Slytherin and your talk of purity and He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named is hardly… it’s hardly  _ polite _ . Is it?”

“But it’s true, we need to be careful to-”

“Yes, yes.” Pansy dismissed his words in a way that she would never have dared to, had her own father uttered them. Which he did, Draco felt like pointing out. Frequently. “People don’t want to think about murder and-and-and-and blood politics all the time. They want to have fun and go to parties without worrying that they are sitting next to a Death Eater.”

The other students were starting to glance their way, alerting Draco to the fact that Pansy’s voice was rising. Dumbledore was still droning on and Potter hadn’t done anything dramatic for at least 5-minutes. If they weren’t careful, Draco and Pansy would soon be the talk of Slytherin house.

“Maybe should discuss this later?” he whispered.

“I don’t think so.” Pansy sniffed. “I’ve said my piece.” 

“Come on Pandy,” he coaxed, pulling out her childhood nickname. “Don’t be snippy. I am sorry I caused you to miss Flint’s 17th, although by all accounts it was a bit of a damp squib and-”

“That’s not at all what this is about and I chose not to attend.”

“Of course,” he hurried to pacify her, glaring at a group of third years who were inching closer.

“Why can’t we be friends with Blaise?” Pansy had finally giving up all pretense at listening to Dumbledore.

“What? Where did that come from? We are friends with…” Draco trailed off, reaching up a hand to twist the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

“Are we?” Pansy knew better than to outright contradict him. Doing so would provide Draco with the opportunity to claim that Pansy, not him, was the one who denied being friends with Blaise. Twisting harder, he tried to think of a response which would reassure her without committing himself.

“Blaise isn’t Mud- er, Muggleborn,” he said.

“He might have Muggle blood, you know, with the whole…” Draco raised his eyebrows, wondering how Pansy was going to work her way out of this one. “You know,” she lowered her voice. “Aren’t Metamorphmagi supposed to have creature blood?”

“He’s not a Metamorphmagus.” Draco whispered back.

“But he changed?” Pansy’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

“I don’t think he’s planning to do so again.” It had been a few years since Blaise and Draco had spoken about Blaise’s reassignment to the boys dorms. Maybe something had changed following Draco’s reappropriation of the brooms. Nevertheless… “He said he’s always been a boy. And even if he was a Metamorphmagus that’s ancient magic, Pans. Hardly a reason not to be friends with a chap.”

“It’s not a blood thing?”

“No!” Thankfully Dumbledore was wrapping up and the crowd around them was making enough noise to cover Draco’s outrage. “Why do you care?” he asked, assessing her. “Do you like him? You do!”

“Shut up!”

“You like Blaise!”

“I absolutely do not, you horrible boy!” Pansy punctuated each word with an attempt to rumple Draco’s hair.

“Parkinson, Malfoy,” one of the Prefects called over. “Stop flirting and get in line.”

Smirking and still pushing each other, Pansy and Draco joined the rest of their class heading back to the castle.

“As  _ if _ I’d flirt with you,” Pansy smiled up at him.

“Revolting thought,” he cheerfully agreed, mind already on the seating arrangements for dinner. Draco had been selected as one of the student guides for Beauxbatons, thanks in part to some slight inflation of his ability to speak French. Everyone on the continent spoke English, he reassured himself, and even if they didn’t-

“Mr Malfoy, change of plans.” Snape looked as harassed as man made of nine-tenths oil can do. “You’re switching with Ms Shariq, she’s taking Beauxbatons and you’re taking Durmstrang.”

“But Professor I am simply avid to parlez vous francais!” Draco protested. The Durmstrang students may have that aforementioned  _ something _ but they were also rather intimidating.

“Draco was rather looking forward to helping the Beauxbaton students,” said Pansy, smiling when Draco gave her arm a grateful squeeze. The rest of the class were nearly at the castle but Snape checked that none had lingered to tie a shoelace. One could never be too careful with Slytherins.

“I am afraid that will not be possible. Some of the Durmstrang students were overheard making comments about Ms Shariq’s blood status,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Professor Flitwick and I thought it might be best if the guides were swapped, at least until the Durmstrang students are used to the more… international environment at Hogwarts.”

“Right.” Draco nodded, struggling to make sense of Snape’s words. “I should… Um. Happy to help, Professor.”

“Good. Thank you, Mr Malfoy, Ms Parkinson.” With a nod, Snape led the way into the Great Hall. Pansy looked like she had something to say but held her peace until, at the doors to the Great Hall, she gave Draco’s hand a squeeze and sauntered off to join Millicent.

The Durmstrang students were already in place, grouped together at the end of the Slytherin table closest to the Professors’ table. Dumbledore looked like he was gearing up for another speech. With a deep breath, Draco began to wind his way towards the guest students, only for Blaise to reach out a hand and catch his elbow.

“Draco, careful of that one.” Blaise nodded to the tallest Durmstrang student, a large boy with the beginning of a soft moustache on his upper lip.

“What about him?” Draco asked, desperately trying to tear his eyes away from the moustache. It was so patchy, almost as if the boy had dabbled a Sticking Charm under his nose and then snorted the contents of a hairbrush.

“He said something to Mina,” said Blaise. Mina Shariq was sitting next to one of the Beauxbaton students, miserably nodding along as the curvy blond boy chatted away. Draco was sure he would have made a much more attentive audience, a flare of irritation lighting through him. “She was really upset,” Blaise was still speaking, large dark eyes fixed attentively on Draco. “I don’t know what it was but-”

“Probably something about her blood status.” Draco spoke without thinking, his mind still snagged on the unfairness of the situation. Glancing down, Draco was taken aback by the unhappiness flitting across Blaise’s face. “What’s wrong?” He asked, mentally reviewing their conversation. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.” Blaise turned back to the table, drawing Draco’s attention to the fact that he was blocking the aisle. A line of students were waiting to squeeze past to the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor tables, led by a rather disgruntled looking;

“Potter.”

“Malfoy. Planning to sit down? Or is it some pureblood tradition to eat standing up?” Potter was almost smiling.

Another time, Draco might have relished the opportunity to give the Boy Wonder a dressing down in front of the whole school. Or to at least attempt it. Unfortunately Pansy’s words from earlier were now jostling for space with Blaise’s pinched expression at Draco’s reference to Mina’s blood status. The combination left Draco feeling overheated and wrong-footed, which was the only explanation for his pathetic comeback.

“Maybe  _ you _ should sit down.” 

“Right.” Potter looked nonplussed, Draco knew how he felt.

“Excuse me.” Turning, Draco scurried down the length of the table, sitting down as quickly as possible between two of the Durmstrang students. Both of whom were reading and made no effort to acknowledge Draco.

Resigning himself to a very awkward feast, Draco watched as Potter bent his head and spoke a few words to Blaise, then made his way over to the Gryffindor table. Honestly. The way Potter strutted around the Great Hall like he owned the castle made Draco physically nauseous.

“Harry Potter.” The Durmstrang student next to Draco spoke, her accent slicing through the English consonants.

“Yes. Hopefully not too much of a disappointment,” said Draco, flashing his most charming smile.

“You don’t like him?” The girl ignored the bowls of fragrant soup and crusty bread that were popping up all around them. “Why? He is your hero, is he not?”

“Hardly a hero,” Draco sniffed. “Oh he may have half of Hogwarts fooled but I can assure you that Harry Potter is no more a hero than-”

“Jealousy is boring,” she interrupted him. “Where is the wine?”

“What wine?”

“With dinner. If I am to be bored, I need wine.” Speechless, Draco watched as she cast a charm over her goblet of delicious and refreshing pumpkin juice, turning it into a cup of wine. A liquid that Draco knew for a fact tasted like vinegar and would turn her teeth brown. “Now,” she took a deep sip. “Talk about something else.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco is cruelly abandoned. Not that he cares.

Not only had Draco been forced to spend the entire feast talking to the far-too-knowing Yordanka Yankova, he was then assigned to be her personal tour guide by Snape. Yordanka was absolutely not the kind of the person Draco should be mixing with. She was abrupt, dismissive, refused to drink anything other than wine and, much to Draco’s disgust, insisted on visiting the kitchens to thank the house elves.

“We don’t really do that here.” He tried to tell her. “They  _ like _ waiting on us. I know, I know,” he rushed on. “Bit of a rum lot but what can you do?”

“You can thank them.” Yordanka remained unperturbed, standing with her arms folded in the entrance to the Great Hall. “Where are the kitchens? Now. Please.”

“Look, there’s really no point. Do come along,” said Draco, moving off to the side of the corridor. When it became clear Yordanka would not be following him, he darted back and tried a different tactic. “It’s rather dreadful of me but I’m afraid that I don’t actually know where the kitchens  _ are _ .”

“It’s Malfoy and a Durmstrang student.” The Weasel was one of the last students to file past Draco and Yordanka. Since a growth spurt at the start of their third year, the Weasel had taken it upon himself to constantly keep his shorter companions updated on all the sights his height privileged him with. Usually Draco would delight in the opportunity to mock the Weasel’s banal observations but right now he was more concerned with moving the intractable Yordanka.

Too late.

“In the way again, Malfoy?” asked Potter. “Or did you get lost on your way back to the dungeons? If you need directions I can help you out. Just walk through that door-” he pointed to the main castle entrance, “-and keep walking until you reach the Lake. Then walk a bit more.”

“I see why you don’t like him,” said Yordanka. “He thinks he is funny.” It was the nicest thing she’d said to Draco all night.

“Er, excuse me?” Harry turned to her. “I’m Harry.” He stuck out a hand. “You’re a Durmstrang student, right?”

“Right, and you are the hero.” Yordanka shook his hand and then held it, making what Draco felt was an excessive amount of eye contact. “Where are the kitchens?”

“Er?”

“You will show me?”

“Er?” Potter cast a bewildered glance at Draco.

“She wants to thank the house elves for dinner.”

“Oh, right. Why?”

“Rude little boy.” Yordanka tutted. “You thank people when they do a good job, and then maybe they give you hot drinks for cold nights on ghastly boat.”

“Are you a fully fledged alcoholic or just having a bad day?”

“Malfoy!” Granger spoke for the first time, her attention finally wrestled away from one of the glowering Durmstrang boys.

“She’s been drinking wine all evening.” Draco protested, gesturing to the smirking Yordanka. “One can only presume that she’s after some piping hot witches brew to-to-to you know!” He finished with a slightly limp flip-flapping movement of his hand.

“What’s wrong with a nice cup of cocoa?” The Weasel asked, unconsciously echoing Draco’s thoughts.

“Cocoa?” Yordanka tipped her head to the side. “Explain.”

“I’ll do better than that.” The Weasel started walking backwards. “I’ll show you. Not you, Malfoy-” he pointed at Draco. “You can scamper back to the Slytherin dungeons with the rest of the snakes.”

“Better not let Ginny hear you saying that.” Potter’s words floated back to Draco as the four of them disappeared around the corner.

***

It was, the small ferret thought to himself, completely and utterly unfair. The castle corridors were dark, the lingering smell of hot chocolate the only sign that anyone else was awake. Potter swanned around, flouting rules and stealing Draco’s guests and yet here  _ Draco _ was, scurrying through the cold drafty corridors like a furry fugitive.

After giving the Terrible Trio and Yucky Yordanka a head start, Draco had transformed into his ferret and attempted to follow them. Potter’s scent was easy enough to track; grass, leather, burnt sugar and that odour unique to all 14-year-old boys who find themselves living in close quarters with their contemporaries and minimum parental supervision. Tracking Potter as far as the Hufflepuff dorms, Draco paused to take a fresh snoutful of his nemesis’ scent, only to find that it had evaporated. Flummoxed, Draco darted back and forth, sniffing frantically. The other scents were gone too and he was about to give up in frustration when the click of boots and swish of cloaks sent him scurrying behind a suit of armour.

It was Professors Moody and Sprout, too busy arguing as they drew near to notice the suit of armour’s new fur stole.

“Dun’t matter to me what it is,” said Sprout, pausing next to the Hufflepuff entrance and rounding on Moody. “You just keep it away from my ‘puffs. You hear?” She jabbed a grubby finger at Moody who (to his credit) only slightly cringed.

“No need to be like that Pomona, er, Professor Sprout,” he hastily corrected himself. “Can’t really imagine one of your cry babies being picked for Hogwarts champion, this is just a bit of insurance and-”

“Helga Hufflepuff,” Sprout bellowed, dropping her voice to a normal volume when Moody subsided into silence. “Did not pour her heart and soul into this school, fight for it, only for some gobby Gryffindor to come spewing nonsense all over the place. ‘Puff champion is just as likely as Gryffindor and when that happens they’re going to represent the school through fair play and honest spellwork.”

“Fair! Yes, if we’re going to talk about fair, is it fair for all the other houses to have the advantage?” Moody asked. “You think the other heads weren’t avid to know the secret to the first challenge? I’m doing you a favour here.”

“Bollocks,” snorted Sprout. “Bollocks to the idea of Minerva even letting you start a conversation about helping the students cheat, let alone encouraging it. And Bollocks to you, Al.” She turned to tap her wand against the bottom barrel, saying over her shoulder. “Dun’t know what happened to you, Al I knew at school never would have behaved such a fool.”

“Is it foolish to want to win?” Moody called after her, leaning slightly as the barrel started to roll back into place. “I’m a teacher, ain’t this what I’m supposed to do? Help the students-” He was cut off by the barrel sliding into place. “Bollocks.”

“What is the secret?” The shock of Yordanka’s voice almost sent Draco skittering down the suit of armour. At the last moment he managed to tangle his claws in the suit’s chainmail, beneath him, the armour made a grinding noise that sounded rather like a huff of indignation.

“What the- none of your business, young ‘un.” Moody attempted and failed to appear unstartled. “You’re a Durmstrang student, ain’t you? Back to bed for you I think Miss-”

“Tell me the secret to the first task or my name will be Miss Lady Who Got You Fired For Cheating.” Yordanka smiled sweetly.

“Cheating? Steady on now.” Moody stepped closer to her, stopping abruptly when she pulled out what appeared to be a dagger.

“Now, Mr Moody.” She levelled the dagger at him, flicking her wrist as it glowed green. “You tell me the secret and I won’t show you all the self-defense charms my sisters taught me.” Draco had no idea what these charms might entail, although from Moody’s suddenly pale face he suspected that “entrail” might be a more accurate word choice.

“It’s an egg,” said Moody, his voice low. “The champions will be given an egg. When they put the egg underwater it sings a riddle.”

“What riddle?”

“I don’t know. A riddle. A riddle with words. Now piss off.” He made to push past her, being careful not to actually make contact.

Smiling to herself, Yordanka watched him go and before making her own way towards the Great Hall. Draco debated transforming and offering to escort her, then remembered how rude she had been about the amount of hair gel he used. The suit of armour creaked again, shimmying a shoulder and depositing Draco on the ground in a pile of fur and claws.

After making sure that no one had witnessed such an unbecombing display, Draco scampered off towards the Slytherin dungeons. Moody’s words chased each other through his mind. Eggs. Riddles. A Gryffindor offering to help a Hufflepuff cheat? None of it made any sense. Draco went to sleep with the feeling that he should do  _ something _ with the eggcellent (he chortled to himself) insights that he had gleaned. But what?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Blaise is very popular and Draco is decidedly less so.

A fitful night's sleep did little to answer the questions buzzing through Draco’s mind. While his fellow Slytherins speculated about whether Cassius would be selected (“Don’t be a fool, Dumbles will never allow one of our lot to represent Hogwarts.”) Draco struggled to understand where a riddlesome egg fit into this whole thing. He spent a few minutes distrustfully eyeing the egg and soldiers served for breakfast, before deciding that they were too anemic and unimpressive to have much bearing on the tournament.

Lessons dragged, even the announcement of the Yule Ball wasn’t enough to lift his mood. Knowing Draco’s luck he would be stuck steering Yordanka around the dancefloor while his friends had fun with the Beauxbatons students. Potter could be counted on to do something silly and attention seeking and then Moody would provide light entertainment by feeding Draco to that monstrous hound Hagrid was always dragging around.

Draco’s gloomy thoughts were interrupted by Mina approaching the bench where he and Blaise were transforming feathers into quills, a task that Draco personally considered beneath him, not that he was ever crass enough to say as much. Also none of the other students really seemed to care.

“Hi Blaise, how’s it going?”

“Hello Mina. Everything alright?” The concerned look on Blaise’s face reminded Draco that Mina had been having trouble with the Durmstrang students.

“Yeah, fine.” Mina examined the corner of the desk, rubbing her thumb against the grain.

“Are you sure? Do you need me to… to…” Blaise cast a rather helpless glance at Draco. Why did Blaise insist on getting himself involved in these situations, Draco wondered. Clearly offering emotional support was not Blaise’s forte, and yet he did seem to feel some kind of… of… responsibility, Draco chewed over the word. Yes, he thought as Mina reassured Blaise that everything was fine. Blaise had a habit of picking up these lame ducks, and then find himself stranded with no idea of how to help them. It was an interesting insight into Blaise character and Draco was so absorbed with this new information that he nearly missed Mina ask;

“Doyouwanttogototheballwithme?”

“Oh.” Blaise blinked. “Awfully kind of you to ask. I, ahem, I’m afraid I already have a… a date.”

“Right. Sorry.” Mina paled. “Well. See you around then, bye.” She gave an awkward half-wave and walked away.

“You have a date to the Ball? The Yule Ball?” Draco couldn’t help himself. The Ball had only been announced that morning and yet here Blaise was with a date, while Draco was still worrying about how to refresh last year’s formal robes.

“I. Well. Are you surprised that I-”

“Alright Blaise?” Whatever Blaise was about to say, nothing good, judging by his stormy expression, was interrupted by the appearance of Ginny Weasley. Honestly, could a man not transform a few feathers in peace? Draco asked himself, glaring up at her.

“We are both well, thank you Nervy,” he said.

“When it comes to you the only “well” I care about is finding you at the bottom of one.” Ginny snarled at him. It was a bit much, Draco had almost thought them friendly after the tournament. Then again, maybe she didn’t appreciate him constantly attacking her family members. Gryffindors really were far too sensitive for their own good.

“How are you, Ginny?” Blaise tipped his chair back onto two legs, smiling up at Ginny a way that Draco knew for a fact he had been practising in the mirror.

“Yeah, good.” The smile she gave Blaise was a little wobbly. “So you’ve got a date for the Ball? Overheard you talking to Mina.” She hurried on. “Just, good for you. Exciting, isn’t it. A Ball.”

“You heard that?” Blaise thumped his chair back onto the group, shooting an uneasy glance towards Mina.

“Sorry, small classrooms. You know.” Ginny waved her hand at the room, as if Blaise and Draco were likely to forget that they were in the smallest, draftiest classroom in the castle. Speaking of which…

“What are you doing here?” Draco demanded. “This is a fourth year lesson, shouldn’t you be in with the babies?”

“I’m one of the advance students.” She snapped. Honestly, the way the girl changed her moods so rapidly over the course of a conversation, it was exhausting. “Anyway, must get on. S-see you Blaise. Malfoy.”

“Ginny, I-”

“Ta-ta.” Draco called, waving sarcastically as Ginny flipped two fingers at him. “Finally.” He addressed himself to Blaise. “It’s practically Kings Cross in here. Now, how far have you got with the renewable ink spell?” Draco had to repeat the question twice before Blaise understood, and even then he wasn’t much help. Probably thinking about his date for the Ball, Draco decided. Honestly if this was what girls did to a chap Draco was better off steering clear altogether.

***

The champions were selected at the Halloween Feast and Draco didn’t even get to gossip with his fellow Slytherins about Potter’s antics because, of course, he was stuck with Yordanka. A few nights on a boat and not being selected as the Durmstrang champion had done little to improve Yordanka’s manners. She picked through the pasta with her fingers, discarding all the olives, and snapped at Draco when he pointed out that she was behaving like a pig at a trough.

“Better a pig than a rat,” she said, lifting her thick eyebrows until they disappeared beneath the purple beret pulled low over her ears. It took Draco a while to understand the rat comment and when he did he performed such a double-take that something in his neck twinged.

“I beg your- how dare- ferret! Not a rat!” He hissed at her. “If you are referring to what I think you’re referring to. Not that there is anything to refer to.”

“Ferret.” She teased out the word, licking the back of her fork like a-

“Pig.”

“What are you scared of, little rat? That I’ll tell your secret?”

“Draco?” Blaise was standing behind Draco’s chair. “Do you have a moment?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes of course.” Draco made to stand, only for Blaise to slide into the empty seat next to him.

“The Durmstrang student from last night, the one who was pestering Mina?” Blaise waited for Draco to nod. “He followed her back to the dormitory after lunch, gave the poor girl an awful fright.” Unsure of what he was expected to do with this information, Draco blinked at Blaise.

“What student?” Yordanka asked, pulling out her knife. “Tell me.”

“Put that away.” Draco murmured, nodding to the knife and trying to hide his admiration for her dramatic instincts.

“What?” Yordanka looked down at the knife in her hand and then at Draco’s flushed face. “It is only a knife. I need it to cut my meat-”

“We are eating Pasta Puttanesca, not gutting a wild  _ pig _ .” Draco snapped. “And people are watching.” He hissed the last words, inclining his head towards the slack jawed third years gazing at Yordanka’s knife like mice watching a snake.

“Look.” Blaise shot a nervous glance at Draco, shaking his head slightly. “It’s, ah, nothing to worry about I-”

“Tell me the name, he will be no help to you,” Yordanka waved a dismissive hand in Draco’s direction. Sandwiched between the two of them, he was forced to lean back in order to dodge the knife, only for Yordanka to close the gap. Leaning closer to Blaise, she was practically in Draco’s lap and a quick glance told him that they had attracted the attention of the Gryffindor table. Ginny was frowning slightly, muttering something to Hermione as she watched Yordanka lean closer to Blaise. The Weasel was grinning like a true buffoon and Potter was… Potter wasn’t here, Draco realised. Potter was with the other champions, probably shaking hands with that fool Dumbledore and sharing a celebratory drink with Diggory like a, like a-

“-pervert.” Yordanka’s voice cut through Draco’s musings. “We Durmstrang women know how to handle him, come-” she stood, reaching out a hand to Blaise. “Take me to this Mina and I will show her a hex strong enough to erase his family from the history books.”

“Absolutely.” Blaise grinned at her, getting quickly to his feet. “Yes, brilliant. You’ll show me too of course?” Draco heard him ask as the two of them left the hall.

Yet again, Draco felt as if a significant opportunity had passed him by. It was similar to when he realised he’d lost Blaise friendship and when he refused to let Michael Corner kiss him behind the Quidditch shed.

Draco wasn’t a fool, he knew that Potter and his cronies would all have to be simultaneously Stupefied and Imperioused before they would even think to invite Draco on one of their nighttime rambles. Those little prigs probably thought that Slytherins sat around in the dungeon drinking bats blood, rather than enjoying hot cocoa. Not that Draco didn’t enjoy a fresh blood lolly as much as the next man…

Realising that his mind had wandered off topic, Draco gave himself a shake and decided to take a quick stroll. A change of scenery would either dispel the sense of being left out, or help understand why he even cared that Yordanka and Blaise had gone off to threaten people without him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco goes to the Yule Ball.

The evening before the second task found Draco unable to sleep. He was still worrying about his robes for the Ball and unclear on whether he should reveal the secret of the eggs. As much as he might try to deny it to himself, Draco was rather relieved to see Potter and Diggory holding their own against the dragons in the first task. It wouldn’t do for Hogwarts to make a poor show in front of the other schools, especially with the press sniffing around.

Deciding that this was a matter best thought over while going for a late night wander, Draco transformed and set off to roam the school. Determined to identify how best to use the eggs for his own benefit, Draco paid no mind to where he walked, taking corridors at random, changing course whenever he heard the prefect patrols or Peeves’ giggle. Which is how he ended up back outside the Hufflepuff common room. Or at least, that would be the story he told himself later that night when rage burned through him and made sleep impossible.

It was a momentary impulse that inspired Draco to flag Diggory down when the Hogwarts Champion returned to his dorms. A charitable desire to assist a fellow student, that prompted Draco to murmur into Diggory’s ear about golden eggs, underwater riddles. After all, having one of Hogwarts Champions owe him a favour would hardly hurt, even better to be thanked publicly by Diggory in  _ The Prophet _ .

No sooner had Draco given permission for Diggory to share the news with Potter, and the older boy was off, lightly jogging away from the badger sett and towards Gryffindor tower. Following in ferret form, Draco reassured himself that he was simply curious to see how much of a hypocrite Potter really was. Gryffindors may talk a good game about fair dealings, yet faced with the opportunity to get one up on his opponents would Potter be able to resist-

Wherever Draco’s mind was going with that thought, it screeched to a halt as he watched Diggory lean closer to Potter and whisper in Potter’s ear _. _ Diggory was close enough for his breath to move the strands of hair curling over Potter’s ear and Diggory  _ lingered _ , seemed to inhale slightly as he stepped back. Inexplicably, Potter didn’t retreat with horror, but instead swayed forward, rubbing the back of his neck as he asked;

“A bath?”

“Try the Prefect’s Bathroom,” Diggory smiled down at Potter, his eyes flicking between Potter’s eyes and his mouth.

“I… alright.” Potter’s voice was breathy, pitched almost too low for Draco to catch. Thankfully he’d found another suit of armour and was well positioned to observe the entire exchange. If either boy looked his way, Draco planned to mimic an extra plume in the armour's ornate helmet. Not that there was any danger of discovery as Diggory and Potter were still gazing into each other’s eyes like a pair of… like a pair of…

“Good luck.” Diggory smiled, walking slowly backwards as his gaze raked over Potter one final time. “Let me know if you find anything… interesting.” He turned, swaggering away and leaving Potter with a hand buried in his own hair and a dopey grin on his face.

And Draco? Draco burned.

He burned with loathing for that hypocritical Potter, who was obviously going to use this tip from Diggory to get ahead, Gryffindor fairness be damned. Draco burned as he remembered the way Diggory had looked at Potter, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to reach forward and touch Potter. As if Potter was something worth touching. Most of all, Draco burned with the knowledge that Diggory had failed to tell Potter who, exactly, had discovered the secret of the egg.

***

The Yule Ball would have been far more tolerable if he had been able to spend the entire thing as a ferret, Draco reflected as he escorted Pansy into the Great Hall. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about finding appropriate robes. Improvised tailoring charms itched under his arms and he walked slowly to control the swish of the fabric. There hadn’t been time to lengthen his formal trousers  _ and _ finish the latest batch of badges.

“Oh, isn’t it lovely?” Pansy whispered, gazing in admiration at the decorations.

“Indeed.” Draco’s glazed eyes slipped over the hall. It was decent of Pansy to agree to go with him, he reminded himself as Pansy twittered on about the hall, her dress, their fellow students and which songs she had requested. Decent and rather draining. The champions hadn’t arrived yet and the crowd was growing restless, shouting with glee at the frosty place settings and lightly steaming band. A group of Gryffindor students were egging each other into licking the lowest hanging icicles.

“Boys.” Pansy sniffed, fussing with the filmy collar of her dress. “Can you see Blaise?”

“Hm, absolutely.” A swift kick to the shin reminded Draco that Pansy was not a girl one could ignore for long. “Sorry, ah,” he scanned the crowd. “Can’t see him.”

“Shame. Do you know if he has a date?” Pansy’s voice was light and tinged with boredom, the effect only slightly undermined by the fact that she’d asked Draco that same question twice already.

“No, sorry old girl. Shall we sit for a while?” Draco nodded towards one of the tables. “What do you think of Lovegood’s dress robes?” He was anxious to keep Pansy off the topic of Blaise as Draco had yet to find the ideal opportunity to tell her that their reserved housemate appeared to have discovered his extroverted side and procured a date. A date who was not Pansy. Or Mina. Or Ginny. Now that Draco thought about it, he realised that Blaise had been rather in demand. Apparently word of his gallantry towards Mina had spread through the fourth years and Draco had been forced to watch Blaise turn down three more offers of a date to the ball.

“They’re here!” Shouts rippled through the crowd, interrupting Pansy’s meditations on the merits of velour robes. Students jostled into place as the doors to the Hall opened one last time and the Triwizard Champions came marching in. Missing the agility of his ferret form, Draco wrapped a protective arm around Pansy and herded her forward, through the crowd. Feeling her shiver, he rubbed his hand against her shoulder and asked;

“Are you cold?” It was hard to imagine she was, the crushing of the crowd was intolerable, yet Draco felt another shiver ripple through Pansy.

“Oh,” she said. “I see Blaise  _ does _ have a date, how lovely.”

Following Pansy’s unhappy gaze, Draco skipped over Potter (of course the man was wearing the latest dress robes from Madam Malkins, why not just print out a sign saying “pots of Galleons, zero idea how to spend them”?) and found Blaise on the other side of the aisle.

“Is that…” There really was no need for Draco to finish his sentence. Yordanka was standing next to Blaise, wearing a turban made from the same fabric as Blaise’s cravat. “Goodness, an older woman.” Draco marvelled. “I had assumed he’d asked one of the Patil girls. This really is rather impressive, even if the woman in question is a horror.” Pansy’s sharp intake of breath altered Draco to the fact that he’d spoken out loud.

“You knew he was bringing someone?”

Caught out, Draco was only able to offer Pansy a helpless shrug as she stared at him in horror. Yet another benefit to being a ferret, he thought to himself as Pansy disappeared into the crowd. The inability to voice whatever idiotic thought was floating through one’s mind.

Draco’s attempt to follow Pansy was blocked by Millicent (“she’s having a moment, bugger off Malfoy”) and he was reduced to wandering the hall, side-stepping laughing couples. Mocking Potter’s atrocious dancing hadn’t been nearly as much fun on his own and by the time dinner was announced Draco had worked himself into an utterly foul mood. Blaise and Yordanka were already sitting at the Slytherin table, smiling like a pair of Nifflers working the welcome desk at Gringotts.

Abruptly changing course, Draco took a sharp left and joined a group of students heading to the smoking area. Of course the underage charms started ringing as soon as Draco stepped across the barrier and he was forced to beat a hasty retreat as the Double Weasel jeered at him.

“Are you smoking, Malfoy?” And of course, Potter chose that moment to cease dry-humping the spotlight and poke his nose into Draco’s business.

“Merely in search of some fresh air, it’s getting rather…” Draco pulled out his best sneer. “Close in here, don’t you think?”

“Not really, smells alright to me.” Potter gave an exaggerated smile, showing far too many teeth. “Maybe you’re not comfortable because everyone is having a good time, rather than pratting about in hoods and trying to scare people.”

“Trying?” Draco cocked his head. “I believe the word you are looking for is ‘succeeding’.”

“The word I am looking for is “wanker”.”

“A successful wanker, nonetheless.” Draco smiled as Potter huffed in frustration.

“Do you even know what a wanker is?”

“Of course.” Draco had no idea. “It is an unflattering… term.”

“Wanking is-” Potter’s cheeks were rather red. “It’s… Oh, piss off.” He attempted to push past Draco, only to also set off the underage charms.

“That’s the smoking area.” Draco helpfully explained. “Heroes don’t smoke.”

“Fuck you.”

Now Draco did know what  _ that _ word meant.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” he asked, inwardly cursing as he felt himself going red. “You seem to be far more interested in fucking Diggory, or is it his date you prefer?” Potter’s shocked expression told Draco that he’d struck home and he pressed forward, sour excitement curdling in his stomach. “Poor Potty, in love with the two most beautiful people in the school and yet they only have eyes for each other.”

“S-sounds like you’re the only one with a crush on Diggory.” Potter mumbled. “Calling him beautiful.”

“Mmm. Keep telling yourself that,” said Draco, judging it time to make his escape. Slipping past a huffing and puffing Potter, Draco made a beeline for the Slytherin dungeons.

***

A few months later, Potter would Portkey onto the Hogwarts lawn, clutching Cedric Diggory’s lifeless body and screaming that The Dark Lord had returned. As he watched panic spread across the faces of the people around him, Draco realised two things. The first realisation was that Potter was no longer his rival, could no longer  _ be _ his rival. Potter was now his enemy.

He tried to fight the second realisation, twisting away and searching for any other explanation. The last of Narcissa’s Malfoy’s jewellery had been sold to finance Draco’s fourth year. The Malfoy vaults were malnourished and yet his parents appeared unconcerned, owling Draco about a family holiday to Saint Barts and their plans to redecorate the East Wing.  After months of unease and confusion, Draco finally knew who would be paying for the rest of his time at Hogwarts.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco asks important questions about girls.

“Control, Mr Malfoy. The only way to achieve a mid-air transformation is to-”

“I know.” Draco groaned, running both hands over his furry scalp and tipping his head back to stare at the classroom ceiling. They had been working on kinetic transformations for months and he was still no closer to… “Oh.” He swung around to face McGonagall. “I, ah, I apologise for interrupting you. You… you were saying?”

“Apparently nothing you haven’t heard before.” She eyed him.

“What? Ahem.” He cleared his throat, trying to pretend that he hadn’t just squeaked. “No, I greatly appreciate your help. Please, do go on.”

“Hmm.” She continued to inspect him over the top of her glasses. “Perhaps we have done enough for one evening. Let us resume on Wednesday. For now, I believe a cup of tea is in order.” With a flick of her wand, McGonagall conjured up the now familiar [Royal Doulton teapot](https://www.replacements.com/p/royal-doulton-witches-teapot-lid/rd_wit/113639181). Draco repressed the now familiar desire to scoff at the babyish design. It was part of the same set that Daphne’s mother used for their Halloween high-tea, very much a novelty item and not to be used day-to-day.

“Do you have any biscuits?” He asked instead.

“Of course.” McGonagall returned his smile as a plate of shortbread hovered between them. They munched in companionable silence, watching the rain sliding down the classroom windows.

***

Draco didn’t need the owl from his mother, or the firecall from his father, to understand that he needed to get on Umbridge’s good side. Years of being able to transform at will and coaching from McGonagall had improved Draco’s control. But stress still brought out his furry alter ego and those early lessons with Moody had taught Draco that becoming a ferret was no proof against torture. Indeed, a few tea parties with Umbridge had made it crystal clear to Draco that she was likely to reach new, sadistic heights if faced with a rogue, undocumented Animagus.

So he joined the Inquisitor Squad and, for a while, he liked it. Watching the younger students duck their heads when he passed and being able to silence even the most rambunctious Gryffindor was a heady experience. Pansy joined the Squad as well and the two of them reigned over the Slytherin Dungeons, the same way Draco’s parents must have when they attended Hogwarts.

It didn’t last long.

Janice was such an avid patroller that she and Nigel had usually cleared the castle by the time Draco and Pansy arrived to take over at 10 pm. The Inquisitors Den was little more than an enlarged stationary cupboard with a desk and two squashy armchairs cramed against the back wall. It did have a Wireless, however, and with all the miscreants scared back to their beds, Draco spent his Wednesday evenings listening to those maudlin Muggle bands Astoria liked.

That particular evening Pansy had begged off, sighting homework and a date with Theo, and Draco was planning to spend the evening listening to the rather gruesomely titled ‘Meat is Murder’ and practise transforming old boots into daffodils. He’d been looking forward to it all day and was dismayed when, less than a minute after taking a seat behind the Inquisitor’s desk, Janice and Nigel marched in with two new prisoners.

Blaise Zabini and Ginny Weasley.

“They were in one of the fourth floor Charms classrooms,” said Nigel.

“Breaking curfew, Blaise?” Draco asked, barely suppressing a groan as Janice handed him a punishment slip. The slip was charmed to duplicate in Umbridge’s office. Blaise didn’t respond, and so Draco pulled out a quill. “Names?”

“You just said his name.” Ginny spoke. She looked very young, wearing a shabby red dressing gown and with her hair down around her face. She didn’t look like the kind of girl who would inspire someone as pragmatic as Blaise to break the rules.

“Gin-nerv-ah Weasel.” Draco spelt out slowly, making a show of filling in the first line on the slip.

“Ginny Weasley and Blaise Zabini.” Blaise spoke. “I have a permission slip from Madam Pomfrey to visit the Infirmary at all times-”

“She doesn’t.” Janice interrupted, eyeing Ginny. Was that what he looked like, Draco wondered, when he interrogated Ravenclaws? Greedy and cruel? It was a disconcerting thought and he nearly missed Ginny’s response.

“-horrific period pains.” Ginny was saying. “I’m basically a waterfall of blood. Blaise was helping me to reach the Infirmary. Because I could barely walk.” She turned her attention to Draco. “You know, because the lining of my womb is peeling away and dripping into my-”

“Oh god.” Nigel interrupted. “I can’t stay and listen to this filth. Deal with her, will you Draco?” Without waiting for an answer, he slammed out of the room.

“So much blood, Malfoy.” Ginny continued. “It’s practically a medical emergency.”

“You’re laying it on a bit thick old girl,” said Blaise. “At this rate you’ll have flooded the castle before we reach the Infirmary.”

“Sorry.” Ginny ducked her head, the pink of her cheeks suggesting that she hadn’t yet lost _all_ the blood in her body. Not that Draco wanted to think about that. He was much more interested in examining the floor of the Inquisitor Squad’s den and trying to remember all of Martin Miggs’ ill-fated sidekicks in reverse order. Intriguingly, Janice looked like she was attempting something similar.

“Are all girls this comfortable with blood and gore?” Draco heard himself asking.

“Come again?” Ginny appeared to be equal parts confused and delighted by Draco’s question. Blaise was just confused and Janice was clearly about to tear the desk out from underneath him if they didn’t start torturing _someone_ ASAP.

“I’ll take it from here,” said Draco. “Thank you Janice.”

“You can’t let them go just because he’s a Slytherin.” Janice folded her arms.

“I beg your-”

“We all know you’re squeamish.” She talked over the top of him. “But this is a serious infringement of school rules _and_ Educational Degree 31.”

“31…” Draco had lost track of the decrees after the one banning an infestation of Muggle Beanie Babies. Was 31 something to do with Extendable Ears or-

“Boys and girls are not to be permitted within eight inches of each other.” Janice hissed.

“Yes, I am aware.” Draco snapped. Honestly, the Ravenclaw Inquisitors were so achingly _keen_ it made his head hurt. What did it matter if he was unable to recite all Umbridge’s silly rules at the drop of a Sorting Hat? He was still capable of telling when a pair of students were engaged in covert activities for The Order and Blaise was hardly an obvious suspect. Ginny on the other hand… “Leave. Now.” Draco turned to Janice. “Unless you wish to put my status on the Inquisitor Squad to a vote of confidence? In which case I would find myself compelled to ask Professor Umbridge to investigate your own activities on the night of the 23rd.”

It never failed, Draco thought happily to himself as Janice swallowed heavily. Everyone had secrets, even the most ardent Inquisitors. Whatever Janice _had_ been up to on the 23rd must have been rather juicy, he speculated as she grabbed her things and slammed out of the room.

“Nicely done.” Blaise smiled. “See you back at the dungeons.” He turned to reach out a hand to Ginny.

“Just a moment. What exactly _were_ you doing?” Draco asked.

“Visiting the Infirmary,” said Blaise, lowering his hand.

“You can’t keep us here.” Ginny, moved forward to stand beside Blaise. “And you’re not going to torture us.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Come on, Malfoy. Let us go. Janice already said you don’t like this stuff and-”

“Janice is surprisingly dense for a Ravenclaw,” said Draco, stung. “She may have memorized the Educational Decrees but she does not understand me, or my motivations.”

“Draco.” Blaise’s voice was almost too quiet for Draco to catch over the roaring of blood in his ears. “We were going to the Infirmary. You have my word. Now-” he took Ginny’s hand. “We will leave you to your evening.”

“I’m afraid not, you see-”

“For fuck’s sake, just do the right fucking thing for once in your life.” Ginny exploded.

“Ginny…” said Blaise.

“No.” She yanked her hand away from his. “You’re always bloody protecting him. Why? All he’s ever done is spread poison and use you to seem better than he is.” Her voice dropped. “You don’t need that, B.”

“He’s not that bad.” Blaise gave her a small smile. “He is trying.”

“No he isn’t.” “I can assure you I am not.” Draco and Ginny spoke at the same time.

“Listen to me.” Draco fought to keep his voice under control and the fur from sprouting behind his ears. “I don’t know what or who,” he eyed Ginny, “you are involved with, and I want no part of it. Do you understand me? I am not “trying” anything and whatever you are “trying” to do with this blood traitor may well get you killed.”

“You’re a right twat, you know that?” Ginny snarled, wrenching open the door and staring expectantly at Blaise. Suddenly exhausted, Draco made no attempt to detain her.

“Draco…” Blaise’s expression had melted back into the mask Draco was used to seeing. “Listen to me Draco.” Blaise stepped closer, dropping his voice. They were almost the same height. “I am not _involved_ in anything, do you understand me?”

“Yes, yes.” Draco waved the words aside, impatient with whatever social insurance Blaise was about to concoct. “Not a word to the others, you and Nervy are simply star-crossed lovers-” he felt a jolt of mean satisfaction at the uneasy glance Blaise threw towards the door. “I saw nothing, know nothing, consider me a vault, sealed and-”

“They are my friends.” Blaise interrupted him. “The Weasleys. Their family has been very supportive of my transition-”

“Your…”

“It’s a Muggle word.” Ginny spoke. Honestly, Gryffindors really were the pits when it came to social niceties and discreet lurking. One would think that they-

“Draco.” Blaise placed a firm hand on Draco’s back, reclaiming his attention. “The Weasleys are my friends, that is why I was meeting Ginny. They are not… they do not have any alliances that might, might impede your family’s wishes and…”

“What Blaise is trying to say is that even though your dad tried to murder me-”

“A spot of possession is hardly murder.” Draco muttered. The words sounded hollow and Ginny carried on as if he hadn’t spoken.

“We’re not out to get you. Just leave us alone and we’ll leave you alone, alright? Come on, Blaise.” She opened the door. “Malfoy probably needs a bit of time to get used to the idea that people can be friends without first needing to name dropping mass murderers.”

The door slammed shut for a third time. Finally, Draco was alone.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which someone else finds out about Draco's furry little problem.

Less than a month after his run in with Blaise and Ginny, Draco received another unpleasant surprise: Yordanka Yankova transferred to Hogwarts for her final school year. Immediately sorted into Slytherin (and oh, how Draco had fumed), Yordanka set about making Draco’s and Pansy’s lives as miserable as possible.

“She slapped Pansy!” Astoria perched on the unyielding arm of Draco’s favourite sofa. “Pansy had just got her, you know-” she lowered her voice, glancing around the busy Slytherin common room. Draco shook his head. “You know.” Astoria raised her eyebrows, peering down at him. “The time. You know.”

“You overestimate me, my dear.” Draco tacked the endearment on at the last moment. Over Christmas his father had taken Draco aside and offered many insights on the way to “court a pureblood witch.” As far as Draco could tell, most of his father’s advice involved convincing girls to do things that they (and Draco) most certainly did not want to do. If it weren’t for the fact that Lucius was married to the most beautiful witch in the world, Draco would have rejected his advice out of hand.

“Don’t make me say it, naughty boy.” Astoria’s uncanny impression of her own mother suggested that Draco wasn’t the only Slytherin receiving parental guidance.

“I promise I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Her period.” Astoria whispered, a pretty flush spreading across her pale cheeks.

“Excuse me?”

“Pansy got her period, and Yordanka slapped her.”

“W…” Draco was utterly befuddled. “H-how did she do it?”

“With her hand, how else would you slap someone?” Astoria was now looking as confused as Draco felt.

“No, no. How did she take Yordanka’s period? Was it a spell?” Draco felt excitement bubbling up in his chest. If women could transfer physical sensations like their moon days, was it possible that he could find a… a vessel for his Animagus? Someone willing to accept payment, or even who  _ wanted _ to spend time as a ferret. After all, Draco reasoned with himself, there were a number of benefits to being able to transform at will. Why, only a week prior he had finally managed a kinetic transformation, and he was fairly sure that he would only need a few more evenings following Potter to discover the meeting place of Dumbledore’s Army. Maybe he wouldn’t seek out an alternative holder immediately, Draco decided. Better to make good use of it now and-

“Pansy didn’t  _ steal _ anything!” Astoria’s helpless giggles interrupted Draco’s musing. “As if anyone would want, w-would want to steal  _ that _ !” She laughed some more.

“Well, what  _ do _ you mean?” Draco demanded, drawing himself up and fixing Astoria with a frosty glare.

“Pansy got her period, you know, her moon days.” Astoria checked that Draco was following. “And she came to tell us and to see if we had anything because she hadn’t, you know, before. No sooner had she said the words than Yordanka slapped her. Slapped Pansy! On the face!”

“Ah.” Draco frowned. “Do you know why?”

“Not a clue.” Astoria shrugged. “Durmstrang students are a little odd, aren’t they? Anyway, Pansy slapped her back, and then Yordanka chased her into the boys dorms.”

“What?” Draco reared back in alarm. “But what about the privacy spells?”

“Those only work for the girls dorms. Daphne says it isn’t fair on the boys.”

“It really isn’t.” Draco stood, absent-mindedly patting Astoria’s shoulder as he drifted towards the boys dorms. “Back in a tick, I seem to have forgotten my Charms textbook.”

***

“There.” Yordanka stepped back to admire her handy work. “You are beautiful again.”

“Do shut up.” Pansy breathed, smiling tentatively at herself in the mirror. Yordanka was right, she did look beautiful. The older girl’s charms had sent golden eyeshadow sparkling across Pansy’s eyelids, and her eyelashes were thick and fluttery, Pansy realised, blinking in delight. She had expected something similar to the bare face and heavy lippy that Yordanka favoured, but this was much better. “I look rather nice.” She said, holding the mirror higher to admire the way the gold made her eyes look bigger.

“Not alright. Beautiful.” Yordanka grumpily corrected her.

“Th-thank you. I love it.” Pansy turned, still clutching the mirror.

“Good. You can do the charms too. I will write them out for you.” Yordanka continued to study Pansy, eyes roving over her school robes and fluffy slippers. “We will go shopping, I think. To Hogsmeade.”

“Oh. Oh, yes, that sounds lovely.” Pansy mentally kicked herself at how breathless she sounded. “And… and thank you for the slap.” She hurried on. Yordanka had explained that it was a Polish tradition to ward off bad spirits by slapping a woman the first time she bled. Pansy’s own hand still tingled from returning Yordanka’s slap, and she found herself desperate to make up for it. “Maybe… maybe Alicia could come too?”

“Why?” One of Yordanka’s eyebrows rose.

“Well. You’re together and-” Pansy had no idea how to end that sentence. She wanted to explain to Yordanka that she, Pansy, could be trusted to keep her secrets. Everyone knew that the ex-Durmstrang student was romancing Alicia Spinnet, but maybe if- 

A sharp inhale from Yordanka interrupted Pansy’s scheming, and she turned to see a… a… “Oh, how sweet!” She cooed, hurrying forward to pick up the soft little creature. “I think it must be a Niffler, what a darling. Hello. Yes, hello.” She brought the Niffler up to her face, making sure not to show her teeth when she smiled at it. This was one of the only things Pansy remembered from her early Care for Magical Creatures Classes, and she was congratulating herself on her recall when Yordanka lifted her wand-dagger-thing and snapped:

“ _ Aparecium _ .”

The Niffler twitched its nose and transformed into an extremely ruffled Draco Malfoy.

“Bedknobs and broomsticks, woman. A Niffler?” Draco demanded, rounding on Pansy.

“Y-y-” words deserted Pansy, and she plopped down on the nearest bed. Only to leap up again when she realised that it was a teenage boy’s bed and therefore, to quote Millie, a pit of disease and depravity. “What?”

“Ferret.” Yordanka spoke. She looked remarkably unruffled.

“Just so,” said Draco. “A medical condition that I have spent years concealing from the world and which you have casually exposed to-”

“I do not like being spied upon, little rat.” Yordanka took a step towards Draco. “I thought that Pansy knew your secret. I was wrong. Forgive me.” As Yordanka’s threat and apology were delivered in exactly the same tone of voice, it took Pansy a while to distinguish the two sentiments. By which point Draco had given Yordanka a curt nod and was giving Pansy an anguished look.

“You can’t tell anyone,” he said. “It’s… mother would, you understand, don’t you, old girl?”

“Of course.” Pansy nodded, eyes darting from Draco to Yordanka. “Do you-” 

“Mother gave me this, just in case.” Draco darted over to one of the trunks and produced a roll of parchment. “It’s an Unbreakable promise. Do you think you could, um…” He held out a quill.

“What?” Pansy recoiled. “You don’t need that, I’m your friend Draco.”

“I had to sign,” said Yordanka. “You will too, and Mother Malfoy will be happy-” Pansy’s eyes darted to Draco who was mouthing “Mother Malfoy?” behind Yordanka’s back. “Then we will all go to dinner and make the other girls jealous of your new face.” Yordanka finished, lifting her dagger and, without looking, firing a small Stinging Hex at Draco.

Draco glared at Yordanka but, as Pansy reached for the quill, he murmured: “Thank you.”

“Do not spy on me again,” said Yordanka, her eyes following the magic fizzing off Pansy’s signature. “And this list needs more names.” She gestured to the parchment Pansy held. She was right, Pansy realised.

_ Narcissa Malfoy _

_ Minerva McGonagall _ (Pansy’s eyebrows rose)

_ Yordanka Yankova _

_ Pansy Lettuce Parkinson _

“Are we the only ones who know?” Pansy asked.

“Yes. Welcome to the club.” Draco gave her a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Not even your-” Pansy bit off the word father. “I mean… what about Blaise?”

“Not even Blaise.”

“You should tell him,” said Yordanka. “He can keep a secret, and he has friends.”

“Draco has friends.” “I don’t need friends.” Pansy and Draco spoke at the same time.

“Blaise will introduce you to the person who made his cloaking charms.” Yordanka ignored them both. “That will be two, or maybe three.” She gave Draco an assessing look. “And the hero boy.”

“The? You mean Potter?” Draco asked, his face twisting in horror. “Absolutely not. We are enemies, do you hear me? He cannot know about this. I do not… do not… I am not in need of  _ saving _ -” he spat.

“You need protection. The Potter can ask Dumbledore-”

“I really don’t think that’s a very good idea, Danka.” Pansy piped up, feeling rather thrilled when Yordanka’s mouth snapped shut, and she gestured for Pansy to continue. “Potter isn’t a particularly stable person-”

“The man is a lunatic.” Draco interrupted.

“McGonagall knows.” Pansy raised her voice. “And she hasn’t suggested telling Dumbledore, or Potter… has she?” Draco shook his head. “You see? I do think you should tell Blaise, but not Potter.”

“Very well,” said Draco. “If you think it necessary.”

“I do.” Pansy nodded earnestly, trying to ignore the way Yordanka glowered at the pair of them. “Blaise is a good sort. He’ll be far more helpful than Dumbledore or Potty Potter.” She giggled. “Funny to think of a Malfoy needing help from a bunch of dotty Gryffindors.”

“It is rather amusing.” Draco conceded. “Now, you have to tell me how the two of you came to blows and reconciled in the space of 20 minutes.” He held up an arm for Pansy to link, gesturing for Yordanka to lead the way as the three of them left the dormitory.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco and Harry have a chat.

Draco took pride in his ability to appreciate the hallowed history of Hogwarts (unlike a certain jumped-up Ernie McMillan, who may have taught himself to elongate his ‘h’s’ but would never escape the petty bourgeoisie belief that bigger and shinier = better). Unfortunately Narcissa Malfoy’s training had failed to take into account the inability of the Hogwarts board to tell the difference between preserving tradition and gazing in misty-eyed nostalgia at students filing into leaking, crumbling, shacks — also known as the Hogwarts Quidditch changing rooms.

Ceilings softened by centuries of sweat and misdirected hygiene charms bowed in the middle. The showers were calcified, copper fittings turning green. The privacy charms had failed decades ago, forcing the more squeamish students to change in their dorms and then drag or Levitate their Quidditch leathers down to the pitch. Despite the redundancy of the changing rooms, it was still traditional for team captains to hold their pre- and post-match pep talks there, perched on top of benches that creaked so loudly that Draco suspected them to be infested with ghouls.

Finding himself condemned to visit the changing rooms at least once a week, Draco had taken some small comfort that at least all the houses had their own leaking shack. Then the expansion charms on the Gryffindor changing rooms failed and he was denied even that meager comfort.

Due to a spat between Godric Gryffindor and Rowena Ravenclaw (the details of which were lost in time but were thought to either revolve around spurned love or a misplaced packet of Cement Chewing Gum) no Gryffindor was permitted to step foot inside the Ravenclaw changing rooms. On pain of death or, more likely, a nasty hexing. The reason that Gryffindors were banned from the Hufflepuff changing rooms was even more murky. Helga Hufflepuff was the main architect of Hogwarts’ Quidditch pitch, stands and surrounding odds and sods. Despite this overview, Helga had apparently been unable to explain why the Hufflepuff changing room floor was the only one with built-in heating charms. Or why any non-Hufflepuff attempting to gain entry emerged with yellow and black stripy eyebrows.

Gryffindor students may be the house most resistant to the curse of Narcissus, but they drew the line at bumble-bee facial hair. The result was that Draco’s fifth year found him sharing the Slytherin changing rooms with a hoard of Gryffindors who appeared to be allergic to clothes.

In addition to the official house matches, the year began with a number of show matches, partly to make up for all the Quidditch the students missed during the Triwizard Tournament. On the morning of the first Gryffindor vs. Slytherin show match, Urquhart, the new team captain, had raised the issue of the Gryffindor team’s resistance to clothes.

“Who cares?” Ginny demanded, standing in the middle of the changing rooms in a thermal vest  _ that showed her bra straps _ (Draco still shuddered at the memory). “We’re only swapping school shirts for Quidditch shirts, unless the rumours are true and you Slytherins like to play in frilly thongs?” Keeping her eyes fixed on Urquhart, she raised a hand to accept a high-five from Potter.

“Course not, it’s not decent though. Is it?” Urquhart had blustered. “Girls running around topless and-”

“If you’ve got a problem with it how about you change in the castle and stop perving on the girls.” Demelza piped up.

“Well…” Urquhart’s eyes slid over to Draco. In a humiliating turn of events, Draco had discovered that he was the only player on the Slytherin team who objected to the Gryffindors using the changing room to actually change. Urquhart was doing his best, but he clearly was more interested in getting on with the team strategy.

Only slightly more infuriating than the Gryffindor boys’ inability to keep their shirts on: Potter was taking the opportunity to be even more obnoxious than usual. It hadn’t been as noticeable during the first show match, but on the morning of the official house match, Potter had parked his bag on the bench, practically on top of Draco, and proceeded to make intense eye contact throughout Urquhart’s pre-match pep talk.

The Slytherins had already discussed tactics as a team, and the changing room pep talk was a mere formality. Potter wasn’t to know that, however. What if Draco was in need of support from his captain? It was hardly sporting, thought Draco, carefully avoiding the knowledge that he would have done exactly the same in Potter’s position.

Not only was Potter  _ staring _ at Draco, he also kept muttering “I know you’re up to something, Malfoy.”

And what was Draco supposed to say to that?

“Yes, you’re right. Let me confess that the Dark Lord has pressed me into service in front of all our teammates.” Or maybe Potter expected Draco to say something incriminating about the Death Eaters’ plans. “My father will hear about this from his position at Lord Voldemort’s right elbow, Potter!”

“Don’t you have better things to be doing?” Draco asked. “Maybe offering your quivering blancmange of a Keeper some inspirational words?” He nodded to the Weasel.

“Ron’s fine.” Potter waved his hand in dismissal, turning back to Draco in time to miss Ron scuttling out of the room with one hand clamped over his mouth. “I can help you, whatever it is. The Order will-”

“Stop it.” Draco hissed, standing up to straighten his leathers and, inadvertently, putting Potter eye level with his crotch. “Nothing is going on.” Draco continued, addressing the hooks above Potter’s head. “The Dark Lord does not require my help-” oh, how he wished that were true, “-and if he did I would be pleased and proud to answer the call.”

“You don’t mean that.” Potter blinked up at Draco, his eyes just as big and toadish as they had been when they first met. An incomprehensible wave of longing surged through Draco. Longing for his early days at Hogwarts, when taunting Potter was his greatest joy and the Dark Lord was a fun fairytale his father liked to tell after a few glasses of brandy. “He’s a murderer.” Potter was saying, voice low and insistent. “He murdered my parents and he-”

“Maybe they deserved it,” said Draco, not really believing what he was saying but saying it anyway. Glancing around, he realised that they were alone. The others must already be on the pitch. “Come on, Potter,” he said, walking towards the door. “I do believe it’s time for Slytherin to hand Gryffindor their sanctimonious arses.” He flushed slightly. Swearing was still a novelty and, despite Yordanka’s careful coaching, it didn’t feel completely natural.

“You think my parents deserved to die?” A pair of strong hands shoved Draco from behind, almost knocking him into the doorframe. Spinning around, Draco raised his arms just in time to block Potter’s second push. “Suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” Potter crowded into Draco’s space, backing him up against the wall. “You only care about yourself and your family but… but…” a deep frown line appeared between his heavy brows and Potter took a deep breath. “He’ll kill you too. Or he’ll kill the people you care about.”

“What are you-”

“How about Blaise? Hm? Does he deserve to die?” Potter was so close that Draco could feel the heat of him, see the patchy shaving charm he must have attempted before the match. It was infuriating to have Potter pressing this close. Brutishly unconcerned with Draco’s personal space, so self-righteous, as if losing his parents gave him the monopoly on… “They’ll kill him too,” Potter was saying.

“Blaise?” Draco asked, belatedly catching up with what Potter was saying. “He’s a pure-blood. They wouldn’t-”

“He’s a shapeshifter,” Potter interrupted, pressing even closer. “And he has creature blood.” His mouth twisted at the words, as if they were as foreign to him as Muggle swearing was to Draco.

“Creature blood.” Fury boiled up inside Draco, sweeping aside his irritation at Potter’s pushiness and making his fangs drop. “You know nothing about him.” Draco hissed, shoving at Potter and drawing mild satisfaction from the way Potter stumbled back. “Blaise is a pure-blood wizard, and the Dark Lord would never-”

“He’s part Veela.” Draco’s mouth clicked shut. “He didn’t tell you.” Potter was still standing too close, eyes darting across Draco’s face. “Blaise’s mum is a Veela.”

“She didn’t want to contribute to the cause,” Draco breathed. “Mother thought it was because the Zabinis want to keep Fudge onside but…”

“Right.” Potter nodded. “Voldemort isn’t just going after half-bloods and… and… Muggle-borns,” his mouth twisted again. “He’ll kill everyone who doesn’t fit. Cedric was a pure-blood, Draco. Remember?”

Draco did remember. It was one of the many things about fourth year he’d tried to forget and that kept coming back to niggle him in the early hours. He also, belatedly, remembered that Potter did not know about Draco’s own shapeshifting. His creature blood.

“Well,” he said, placing a hand in the centre of Potter’s chest and pressing until the shorter boy stepped back. “This has been fascinating, but I’m afraid that any longer in the Chosen One’s company may render me a star-struck wreck.”

“Malfoy.”

“See you on the pitch, Potter.” Draco managed not to break into a run, pushing shaking hands into the deep pockets of his Quidditch leathers. He would write to his mother, he decided. She would reassure him about the Dark Lord’s intentions.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco has a little chat with Umbridge.

Draco’s mother did not reassure him. In fact she _a_ ssured him that the Dark Lord would not take kindly to the discovery of a second, illegal Animagus in his ranks.

Wormtail’s pathetic attempts to ape his betters had always struck Draco as reason enough for the Dark Lord to scorn the little rat. To snigger with Lucius when Wormtail insisted on “pimping out” his silver hand, and to sneer when the Rat Man forgot himself and swore at the dinner table. Peter Pettigrew was the kind of social grub who, given the smallest chance, would burrow beneath the skin and start laying eggs. In the presence of those whose approval he coveted, Wormtail’s rough accent would transform into a squeaky imitation of Draco’s own drawl. His table manners were atrocious, he asked for beer with dinner, dunked his biscuits, referred to the lavatory as ‘the lav,’ and wore polyester robes.

Of course, Potter did most of these things as well, and people sometimes called him a hero. But Potter had no aspirations to claw his way into high society, and Draco told himself that made all the difference. But it was as if Potter’s words had unlocked a door in Draco’s mind. Everywhere he looked, lines were being drawn between people like himself and the rest of the world. Of course Draco was a fan of lines, especially those that kept men like Wormtail in their place. But these were new lines, lines between “normal” magical folk and those with creature blood.

Veelas, centaurs, vampires, mermaids, werewolves, house-elves, metamorphmagi, registered and unregistered animagi — the people making the laws didn’t seem to care where the human side of these creatures went to school or who their fathers were. Draco had checked, in a roundabout way, loitering in the library near the magical law section and owling his father convoluted questions about how far the new laws extended.

“To the ends of the Earth,” Lucius gleefully wrote back. “When the Dark Lord’s day arrives there won’t be a single bolt or loophole for those animals to wiggle through.”

Lucius did have hyperbolic tendencies when it came to the written word (and most other words, too), but Draco was slowly learning to tell fact from fantasy and it seemed that, despite the flowery prose, Lucius was telling the truth. Being a Malfoy would not protect Draco from a life lived in obscurity or the Dark Lord’s censure.

The rest of Lucius’ letter included a comical account of the Dark Lord punishing Wormtail for some misdemeanors by cursing him to stay within 6 feet of the kitchen cat at all times. In rat form. A few weeks prior Draco would have been delighted by Lucius’s description of Wormtail frantically darting and pirouetting around his invisible prison, dodging Mrs Lederhosen’s paws. Now, Draco felt something pressing against his throat, as he tried to imagine what punishment the Dark Lord would devise for a ferret.

All of this was confusing enough and then, with exactly the kind of terrible timing Draco had begun to expect as part of his lot in life, Dumbledore’s Army were discovered.

Draco had expected to feel a sense of triumph when Potter’s Poseurs (as he nicknamed them, much to Pansy’s delight) were apprehended. His role on the Inquisitorial Squad had stopped being fun a while ago, somewhere between casting a barrage of Tickling Charms on squirming second years and Blaise’s look of resignation when Draco called the Weasleys “Mudbloods”. Recently Draco had spent most of the nights after his IS patrols lying awake, listening to Astoria’s dreary Muggle albums and trying not to think about his bedroom back at the Manor.

Taking Potter down a peg or two was usually enough to put a smile on his face and, after the Slytherin team’s rather bruising show matches, Draco needed a win. Something to take his mind off the ever-percolating worries about his future and the sneaky suspicions that his ferret form had developed Magical Mange.

Why, then, was he finding the tableau before him so… disquieting?

Potter was looking as ridiculously self-righteous as ever, glowing at Umbridge from beneath his heavy dark fringe and from behind those ludicrous, heavy-framed glasses. It was just as well, Draco mused, that Potter’s eyes were so bright, otherwise they’d be easy to overlook and The Boy Who Lived would be nothing more than hair, glasses, and freckles. And when had those appeared? Summer was still a long way away and Potter definitely hadn’t had so many dark flecks scattered across his cheeks during their conversation in the changing rooms. Was it possible that he had picked them up from Ginny? Draco had seen the two of them walking together by the lake, but surely if that was the case then Blaise would have acquired a-

Taking a deep breath, Draco dragged his eyes away from Potter’s revolting face and attempted to understand why the interrogation was making him feel so uneasy. He was starting to suspect that it was because Granger was crying. Not that Draco minded seeing Potter’s favourite Mudblood in tears, but he had spent enough time attempting to make Granger cry to know that it wasn’t an easy thing to manage. Granger hardly ever cried. In fact she wasn’t properly crying now; her face was twisted, but her cheeks were dry, and she kept darting meaningful glances at Potter.

Something, Draco realised, was amiss.

Apparently unaware that Granger’s tears were as fake as Pansy’s nose, Umbridge was smiling. “Now, now, my dear. Are you ready to tell me how that nasty Dumbledore took advantage of you?”

“Y-yes.” Granger issued a pathetic sob, her eyes darting once again to Potter. “D-dumbledore told us that if-if we joined his army that we would be saved fr-from the weapon.” Umbridge nodded, greedily, leaning over Grangers chair and offering her a tissue.

“Dear me,” she tutted. “A weapon, how horrid. Not at all suitable for children.” Every single teenager in the room, including Draco, bristled. “Did Dumbledore say what kind of weapon it was?”

“N-no.” Granger really was laying it on thick, twisting her hands in her robes and screwing up her face as if she’d eaten one too many Ice Mice. “He said it was to be kept at Hogwarts and the DA, er, Dumbledore’s Army, were supposed to distract you.”

“Did he now? Well, he’s not the first man to underestimate me.” Umbridge nodded grimly, for some reason making eye contact with Draco. “Mr Malfoy? A moment, if you please.” She walked over to the window and cast a Privacy Charm. Taking great care not to brush against Potter, Draco followed, hoisting his best sycophantic smile into place. It was a bit like his dashing smile but less confident and with a touch of grease.

“Yes, Professor?”

“A weapon! On Hogwarts grounds!” Umbridge was practically vibrating with glee. “Needless to say, I will contact the Ministry immediately.”

“Of course.” Draco nodded. It was flattering to be confided in, maybe Umbridge wished to ask for his opinion of the best way to imprison Potter and Granger while-

“And I do rather believe that your father’s house guest will be interested in this development.”

“I beg your pardon?” Draco’s mouth went dry. “Houseguest? My parents, ah, my parents are not entertaining at the moment. Professor.” She couldn’t _know_ , could she? Umbridge had spent the last year singing the Ministry line that the Dark Lord had not returned. And even if she had suspected - Draco had ruefully come to the conclusion that Fudge wasn’t quite as much of an idiot as his father believed - surely she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t, wouldn’t just blurt it out in this manner.

“He Who Must Not Be Named.” Umbridge nodded, smiling up at Draco as she obliterated the last few shreds of his mental equilibrium. “Your father’s houseguest. Don’t you think he’d like to know that his enemy has developed a powerful weapon, and that you and I have discovered its whereabouts?”

“I…” Draco was at a loss. Of course the Dark Lord wouldn’t want to know about Granger’s made-up weapon. He’d laugh Draco out of the Floo, and then call him just to cast an Unforgivable. “There appears to have been a misunderstanding-” he cleared his throat. “My family are not… not…”

“Draco.” A small fly had become stuck in her lipstick and it waggled it’s legs feebly at Draco. He struggled not to feel a certain amount of kinship. “Do you know what I do with little boys who lie to me?”

“Professor I assure you I would never-” Umbridge reached up a hand and slowly pinched her fingers together. Draco’s mouth closed, his mind flooding with images of angry pink scars against brown skin.

_I must not tell lies._

“Now, run along and firecall your father.” Umbridge smile became slightly less manic as she read what must look like capitulation on Draco’s face. “I shall wait here for you, and then we will allow Dumbledore’s minions to show us where this weapon is kept.”

“I… of course.” Draco nodded, straightening. He felt Potter’s eyes on him as he left the room and found himself wondering if Umbridge was aware that the classrooms were charmed to negate Privacy Spells. Probably not — that didn’t seem like the kind of information McGonagall would see fit to share with Dumbledore’s replacement.

 

***

 

He counted to 100 as he stood in the drafty corridor outside the classroom. Then he counted to 100 again. Then one more time.

“Professor Umbridge?” He returned to the classroom. There was a fresh cut on Potter’s cheek and some of the Inquisitorial Squad members looked upset.

“Yes, Mr Malfoy?” She came towards him, casting another useless Privacy Spell.

“My father’s houseguest is on his way. He asked that I secure the weapon, immediately.” Draco could only assume that whatever reason Granger had for luring Umbridge into the Forbidden Forest was better than her woeful playacting.

“He wants _you_ to secure the weapon?” A faint crease appeared between Umbridge’s eyebrows.

“Indeed, come along, Granger.” Draco turned towards the door, trying not to smile when Umbridge immediately cleared her throat;

“Hem hem.” She stepped forward, shaking her head. “I will take it from here, Mr Malfoy.” Draco opened his mouth as if to protest, then closed it again as Umbridge shook her head. “Miss Granger, Mr Potter. This way if you please.” She pointed her wand at the two Gryffindors. “Miss Shatterdrop,” she addressed herself to Janice. “Do not let these students out of your sight until I return.” Umbridge gestured to the rest of the DA members.

Nodding earnestly, Janice waited until the door closed behind Umbridge before addressing the rest of the room. Her cheeks pink with pleasure.

“Well, well, w-” She didn’t get as far as the third “well” before Ginny knocked her out with a Bat Bogey Hex. Draco had just enough time to appreciate Ginny’s aim before he was taken out as well, along with the rest of the Inquisitorial Squad.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco finds some unexpected allies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly though I was genius enough to have made up the meeting between Draco and Yordanka in the corridor. Then I saw [this amazing comic](http://fleamontpotter.tumblr.com/post/178021861679/rip-dolores-a-request-from-my-instagram) from the wonderful fleamontpotter and realised that I must have subconsciously absorbed her brilliance and claimed it for my own.

Madam Pomfrey decided that the battered and bogeyed Inquisitorial Squad did not need to spend the night in the Infirmary. She had to keep a bed free in case Professor Umbridge managed to escape the forest.

“There isn’t anything wrong with you,” she explained to Draco. He was the last IS member to leave and was putting up a fight. “Or at least nothing a good night’s sleep won’t remedy.”

“There were  _ bats _ flying out of my  _ nose _ .” Draco repeated.

“It was an illusion. There were no-”

“Bats.” Draco hissed.

“Out.” Pomfrey hissed back, then laughed at whatever Draco’s face did in response. “Look,” she took hold of his elbow and began steering him towards the door. “I’ll give you something to help you sleep, just this once. You’re not on any contraception potions, are you?”

“Of course not.” Draco's face twisted at the thought.

“I have to ask.” She raised an eyebrow.

“I know,” he muttered. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Pomfrey pulled out her wand and  _ Accioed  _ a small paper packet from her doctor’s bag. “Here, dissolve this in hot water and drink it before bed. It will stop you having nightmares about bats or… anything else.”

Huffing, Draco accepted the packet. Pomfrey was peering at him over her half-moon spectacles and, really, if she and Professor McGonagall didn’t want the students to realise they were together maybe they should try to stop mixing up their glasses. Then again, Draco realised, there probably weren’t that many students who saw the pair of them together as regularly as he did. Pomfrey had started to join his bi-weekly tea and transformation coaching with McGonagall, ostensibly to check that Draco’s ferret was in good health.

“I don’t want to go back there. To the dorms,” he explained in a rush.

“Why?” Pomfrey’s brow creased and Draco hurried to disabuse her of whatever horrific conclusions she was drawing.

“Umbridge didn’t realise that the classrooms negate privacy charms from anyone other than the designated professor,” he said. “She, ah, she said some things to me that I’m afraid… I believe my housemates will wish to discuss.” Such as what it was like living with the Dark Lord and did Draco have any cool new tattoos.

“Well, you can’t stay here,” said Pomfrey. “Most of the beds are full with students who were brought in by the Inquisitorial Squad.” The look she gave Draco made him seriously consider running off to hug the nearest Hippogriff. “All I can tell you is that those herbs will help you sleep. If you were to exaggerate their potency and impact to your housemates then that really is none of my business.”

“Oh! Yes, thank you, Pomf- er- Madam Pomfrey. Awfully decent of you.” Weak with relief, Draco found himself shaking her hand. “Sorry, ah. Good-have a good evening.”

“You too.” She stood in the doorway and watched him leave, sighing when, at the end of the corridor, Draco transformed into a ferret and scampered down the stairs. “Surely it’s time Minnie taught that boy some discretion?”

***

Draco was almost back at the Slytherin dorms when he heard Snape’s voice.

“We are to carry on in blissful ignorance, I suppose?”

“You suppose correctly,” said McGonagall. She was a step ahead of Severus as the two of them rounded the corner, wands drawn. “Headmaster Dumbledore has always always preferred to keep his own counsel, and as we do not know when Professor Umbridge will return from her visit with the centaurs-”

“Visit.” Snape snorted, striding past the dark alcove where Draco was hiding. “Is that Scottish for kidnapping?”

“It’s Scottish for ‘hold your tongue’.” McGonagall swung around to face him, her raised wand brushing his collar. “Dolores and I may have our differences but if I suspected for a moment that the centaurs would harm her-”

“You wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it and so would have to immediately repress the thought.”

Draco suppressed the urge to cheer, or squeak, in support of Snape. If he’d understood correctly, Potter and Granger had led Umbridge into a trap, and Draco had one less blackmailer to worry about. On the other hand, those beasts were hardly likely to treat Umbridge with dignity, and McGonagall really was a fool if she thought otherwise.

“What I can do-” McGonagall was speaking, a slight tremor in her voice, “-is to make sure that the children in my care are safe and to owl the Aurors details of Dolores’ situation. One of these things I have already done. Will you help with the other? Severus?”

“Of course.” Snape nodded, gesturing with his wand-free hand for McGonagall to lead the way. “I don’t suppose you know where Potter has got to? He was last seen with Umbridge and…” their voices faded away as the two of them left Draco’s hiding place.

Well. Draco brushed a speck of dust from his whiskers and resumed scampering along the corridor. Pomfrey offering Draco tips on how to avoid his nosey housemates. Umbridge in the hands of the centaurs. Snape and McGonagall being cordial with one another. It truly was a evening of surprises. Draco would sleep better tonight than he had for weeks, even with the nagging guilt about spilling his parents’ secrets to the entire Inquisitorial Squad and Potter’s band of Poseurs. Not that he’d had much choice, after all-

“Here he is.” A pair of long-taloned hands descended from the ceiling and scooped up Draco. “We’ve been waiting a long time.” Squeaking indignantly, Draco was lifted until he was eye-to-eye with Yordanka’s nasty face.

“Er… are you, ah, sure about this?” Blaise was standing behind Yordanka, his face twisted with confusion.

“Oh, yes.” She gave Draco a gentle shake. “Change back before I make you.” Sensing defeat, Draco resolved to make things as difficult for Yordanka as possible. With a deep breath, he squirmed out of her hands and leapt through the air towards her face, transforming as he went. It was the first time Draco had managed a kinetic transformation and he had just enough time to reflect on how pleased McGonagall would be before he knocked Yordanka to the ground.

“Draco!”

“Steady on old man.”

“Fucking Malfoy?!?”

The chorus of voices alerted Draco to the fact that Blaise and Yordanka were not alone, just as Yordanka grabbed a fistful of his hair and tugged. Rearing up, Draco managed to bat her hand away, only to receive a stinging hex to the gut.

“Oof.” He staggered back, winded from the hex and the struggle. Yordanka was being helped to her feet by Blaise. Draco took pleasure in noting that her beret had been knocked askew.

“You.” She made a lunge for him, dagger drawn.

“Careful now.” Blaise caught Yordanka’s arm, pulling until she gave Draco space.

“Are you alright?” Pansy spoke up.

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t mean you.” She glared at Draco, elbowing him aside as she went over to check on Yordanka. “He knocked you over, are you hurt?”

“Fine.” Yordanka straightened her beret and held out a hand to Draco. “Good magic. Tricky. Are we friends?”

Draco didn’t feel particularly friendly but he was in no position to sniff at olive branches.

“Of course.” He shook Yordanka’s hand, finding himself only slightly surprised when she didn’t try to grind his bones together. Glancing around, he realised that the other person who’d witnessed his transformation was. “Weaselette.”

“Alright Malfoy? You’re looking… awkward.”

“Yes. Well. It is rather awkward to be physically assaulted and exposed by a mumbling-”

“I will stop you there.” Yordanka’s hand was back on her dagger. “We just made friends again, and I speak five languages, while you speak English, rat language-” Draco saw Ginny mouth ‘rat chat!’ to Blaise. Blaise coughed. ‘-and bad French.” Yordanka continued. “Now, Ginny.” She stepped back and motioned for Ginny to step forward.

“What?” Ginny didn’t move. “Shouldn’t we go somewhere private or…”

“Did you Bat Bogey Draco in private?” Pansy interrupted. With a rush of relief, Draco realised what was happening.

“Come on, old girl.” Blaise smiled at Ginny. It wasn’t his real smile, something that Ginny apparently noticed as well, judging by her frown. Pansy stepped forward to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Blaise, the knuckles of their hands brushed together.

“Right. Ok. Right, then. I’m sorry,” Ginny dragged her eyes away from Blaise and turned to look at Draco. “You know I had to do it-” she waited for him to acknowledge this with a stiff nod, “-but I didn’t need to hex you twice.”

“Indeed.” Somewhere in the back of Draco’s mind, his mother murmured something about graciously accepting apologies. “I suppose the double hexing did lend an air of authenticity to the proceedings.”

“Yeah. Ok, are we done?” Ginny asked Yordanka. “It’s just that Harry has disappeared off with my idiot brother and I’d like to check that he’s still alive. What with, you know, all the torture that Umbridge, you know. Thanks by the way, Draco. For helping to sort her out.”

“Don’t mention it.” Draco lifted his hand in an awkward wave, immediately regretting it as Pansy and Yordanka issued identical snorts.

“We still need to discuss the other thing,” said Blaise. “Your houseguest,” he answered Draco’s silent question. “It’s all over the school, I’m afraid. Greg told myself and the other Sixth Years.”

“Loony Lovegood told me.”

“Don’t call her that,” Ginny snapped at Pansy.

“Oh, I’m sorry. What would you rather I call her? Lurgy Lovegood? Loser Lovegood? L-”

“Enough.” Yordanka’s interruption probably saved Pansy from a black eye. “Everyone knows Voldemort-” Blaise and Pansy winced, “-is living at your home.”

“Surely they don’t believe it?” Draco asked, feeling slightly incredulous and very desperate.

“Well, not if they hear it from Lovegood. She makes the entire episode sound like the front page of her father's conspiracy rag- oh!” Pansy turned to Ginny. “That’s rather clever!”

“It was Yordy’s idea.” Ginny shrugged, trying not to look pleased. “We ran into her after hexing you lot.” she explained to Draco. “Told her about your little chat with Umbridge and-”

“I’m sorry but can one of you please explain to me what is happening?” Draco tried to keep the whine out of his voice. He could still feel Ginny’s phantom bats scrabbling at the inside of his nostrils, his wrists hurt from Longbottom’s  _ Incarcerous _ , the corridor was freezing,  _ and _ he had missed dinner.

“Of course.” Blaise reached out a hand to clasp Draco’s shoulder, a gesture that did precisely nothing to temper the anxious spiral Draco was entering, especially as Blaise had not voluntarily touched him since second year. “The corridor is secure-” Blaise was saying. “Danka cast some truly impressive Notice-Me-Not charms as soon as the professors were out of sight. Pansy and I were already trying to find you-” the way Blaise’s eyes skittered away from Draco made it clear that there was more to the story “-we ran into Danka and Ginny. They told us that Umbridge had decided to spend some time with the centaurs-”

All five students smiled gleefully at each other.

“And we joined forces.” Blaise concluded.

“So far, so bizarre.” Draco turned his attention to Yordanka and Ginny. “What about you?”

“I told Ginny it would be better if people thought you were lying and she agreed.” Yordanka shrugged.

“Well, I took a bit of convincing but once I knew you’re on our side-”

“I am most certainly not!” Draco hissed at Ginny, swallowing down bile and panic. “If the Dark Lord  _ was _ living at the Manor I would be honoured to support him and-”

“You’re an Animagus.” Ginny crossed her arms, widening her stance as she glared up at Draco. “Yordy said I had to keep your secret, and I said she had to tell me why. This-” she lifted her hands to either side of her nose, jutting her fingers out to mimic whiskers “-was what she told me.”

“And who gave you the right-”

“She was trying to help you.” Pansy interrupted Draco. “What else was she supposed to do? Let the whole school know about your… about the…” She began to mimic Ginny’s whiskers gesture. Thankfully Blaise acted quickly, reaching out to grasp one of Pansy’s hands.

“Maybe this wasn’t the best idea.” He addressed Draco. “We can wait until things have cooled down and then regroup.”

“Good.” Yordanka started walking backwards away from Draco. “Give you time to calm down. See you soon, Ginny.”

“Yeah, see you later.” Ginny’s voice was subdued as she watched Blaise and Pansy follow Yordanka. They were still holding hands.

“Are you…” Draco trailed off, watching in horror as Ginny blinked furiously at the wall.

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

“Blaise can be rather-”

“I will buy you a hamster wheel,” she snapped.

Draco had no idea what a hamster wheel was, but he was fairly sure he would hate it. The chiming of a clock reminded him that it had been a rather long day. There were dark circles under Ginny’s eyes.

“Very well,” he said. “Thank you very much for your help and… and fuck you very much for the hexes.” Ginny’s bark of laughter ricocheted around the corridor.

“Fuck you too,” she said. “See you at the regroup.”

“There will be no regroup!” Draco called after her. “I am not on your side, Weasel.”

“Looking forward to working with you, Malfoy.” She kept walking. “Try not to double-cross us all before breakfast.”

***   


Draco went to bed that night with a newfound sense of ease. Not that he wanted to enter into some barbaric Mudblood alliance, you understand. No. Draco was simply feeling a healthy appreciation for Blaise’s ability to network his way into Potter’s inner circle. Madam Pomfrey’s brisk concern was soothing to a boy who occasionally still got homesick on long sleepless nights. And Yordanka? She was still as crude and lewd as ever, but she did try. She tried to protect Draco, to protect his family’s secrets and to mitigate the damage Umbridge may have thoughtless visited upon him.

This ease disappeared the next day, when Draco learnt that his father had been arrested, that Sirius Black was dead, and that the Malfoys had acquired some new houseguests.

***

A few hours of harried packing and the Malfoy Portkey dumped Draco at the gates of the Manor. His mother usually charmed the Portkeys into her private sitting room, giving mother and son an hour to take tea and exchange news before joining Lucius. Already uneasy at the new arrival point, Draco reached out to touch the Manor gates, only to be interrupted by a soft “Draco?” Narcissa stepped out from the shadow of the ornate gate posts, her spring cloak wrapped tightly around her.

“Mother!” As they embraced, Draco felt the near-threadbare wool against his cheek and fiercely promised himself that he would find a way to replace the damned thing before the summer ended. The fabric was heavy with dew - how long had she been waiting? - and some of the moisture came away on Draco’s cheek. “Don’t fuss,” he said, allowing her to wipe it away. “Your owl was far too vague. It isn’t true, is it? Father in Azkaban?”

“I’m afraid so.” Narcissa finished drying his cheeks, stepping back to look at him. “We will have to be very brave, my darling. There are…” she faltered.

“The houseguests?” asked Draco.

“Yes. In light of your father’s misfortune, the Dark Lord has summoned all those who are-who are loyal to him. They will be staying here.”

“They won’t fit.” Draco said, nonsensically. Of course the Dark Lord would not be bunking in the Blue Room with a dozen loyal Death Eaters. He would be taking over multiple rooms if not-

“The West Wing.” Narcissa nodded. “And the East Wing too, if many more answer the call. We’ve had nine arrive since breakfast and another four promised by sundown.” Her face twisted with unhappiness.

“Mother-”

“Don’t fuss.” She nodded, parroting his words back to him and attempting to smile.

“You can probably fuss a little,” said Draco. “If they’re anything like Uncle Ruddy they’re bound to be dismal company.”

“I’m afraid we must count on it.” Narcissa’s smile slipped away completely. “My darling boy, listen to me carefully. You are not, under any circumstances, to be alone with the Dark Lord. Do you understand?” She waited for Draco to nod. “You will not venture into the West Wing without me-”

“Mother-”

“Promise me, Draco.” She reached out to grip his arm, giving it a soft shake when Draco avoided her eyes.

“Father would want me to protect you.”

“Yes. Yes, he would. And he would want you to protect yourself.”

“I’m not more important than you.” Draco insisted.

“You… Draco,” Narcissa stepped closer, dropped her voice to a soft murmur. “He can use you against me. And he will. Promise me that you will restrict yourself to the family rooms. You might… you might feel more comfortable sleeping in the stables in your, ah, your ferret form.” 

When he was younger, Draco used to occasionally wonder what would happen to him if his father left, like Greg’s father had. Would Draco and Narcissa be homeless? Would they have to sell the Manor? Live in a leaking attic somewhere with mice and sleep on ripped newspapers? They were the daydreams of a little boy, already confident that his mother’s connections would never allow them to sink so low. To be abruptly confronted with the reality of this ghastly scenario was like a bucket of cold water. A bucket of cold water that never emptied, continuing to douse Draco in icy waves of misery.

Narcissa would never say the f-word, would never ask him to sleep in the stables if she weren’t desperate. Nodding numbly, Draco promised and, after a quick hug, he stepped back to watch his mother transform into a long, grey crane, and fly away.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everything's comin' up Malfoy.

The summer lasted forever, cold and wet, and seeping into Draco’s bones until he was genuinely surprised to hear the whistle blow at King’s Cross and feel the warmth of a fresh pumpkin pasty in his hand. Hogwarts had never felt like freedom before. Hogwarts was fun and excitement and adulthood but never-

“Cheer up, old bean.” Yordanka had spent the summer perfecting her dreadful Britishisms and coaching Pansy on how to pencil in her eyebrows. The result was, in Draco’s opinion, alarming on both counts. Yordanka had already called him every foodstuff under the sun, and Pansy’s eyebrows made her look furiously constipated.

“She’s right,” said Pansy. “I know you’ve had a horrid summer but sometimes you-” she glanced at Blaise, who was reading in the corner of the carriage, “-you just have to pick yourself up and start over again.”

“My summer was delightful.” Draco replied, taking heart at the sneer in his voice. At least spending months being verbally abused by a group of paranoid asthmatics had improved his poker face. “I taught myself to juggle, spent some time with the horses, caught up with our houseguests.” He gave all three of them meaningful looks. Blaise carried on reading, Pansy rolled her eyes and Yordanka frowned. Which… Hmmm. Draco didn’t usually get a reaction out of Yordanka, maybe he could have some fun. “Oh, yes,” he carried on, leaning slightly closer to her. “Very interesting bunch of people and so enlightened in regards to social issues.” Much to Draco’s delight, Yordanka crossed her arms and started tapping her foot. “Take Mudbloods, for instance-”

“This is boring.” Yordanka announced, turning to watch the scenery rush past the window. “Talk about something else, please.”

“Oh is that another of your new words? Please?” Draco asked, fighting back irritation at Yordanka’s refusal to pick a fight with him. She clearly wanted to. Her shoulders were so high they were almost touching her beret, and the hand that wasn’t holding Pansy’s hand was… oh. Draco felt his head tip to the side. “Huh.” He must have spoken aloud as the two girls swiftly unclasped their hands and turned to look at him. “I…” Draco found himself at a loss. Yordanka was glaring at him. Pansy was glaring as well, although that might be in the new eyebrows, and Blaise had stopped pretending to read.

“I think you need to learn some new words, too.” Yordanka finally spoke. “That word you just used, ‘Mudblood’-” she managed to make it sound like a hairball, “-that is a silly, old word. Learn another word and use that instead. That would make you a good egg.”

“I have no interest in being a ‘good egg,’” Draco spat, fighting to keep his fingers from erupting into claws. “You may all have gone running off to join Potter’s Poseurs-” If Draco hadn’t been fighting off his ferret form, he might have missed the muffled snort that erupted from the luggage rack opposite him. “W-we should return to the good old days.” He rambled on, mind working frantically. Someone was in the carriage. Someone who shouldn’t be there and, apparently, had access to some seriously powerful magic. “Muggle-borns are only the tip of the iceberg-” Draco continued, falling back on one of the Dark Lord’s favourite monologues while his whiskers itched to break forth.

“Do be quiet.” Pansy interrupted. Finally. “Ginny was awfully decent about your Niffler problem-”

“Ferret.” Draco and Blaise spoke at the same time.

“-whatever, she didn’t complain about the Unbreakable-” praising Ginny Weasley seemed to be giving Pansy physical pain, but she soldiered on “-and that’s a horrible thing to say about anyone’s father.”

“Of course, Pans,” Draco agreed, wondering what on Earth he had said. A faint rustling from the rack signalled that the invisible interloper was still with them. “Many apols and all that rot, let’s be quiet for a bit, shall we?”

“Er, ok.” Pansy’s eyebrows were even more troubled as she absorbed Draco’s apology. He should have drawn it out a bit, put up more of a fight. The train was slowing down.

“Are we there already?” he asked, ignoring Pansy’s answer as he climbed across Yordanka and pressed himself against the window is a parody of his first excited train journey to Hogwarts. Satisfied that he had ensured he would be the last to leave, Draco favoured her with a superior smile.

“Silly sausage,” Yordanka muttered, yanking her beret back into place. Draco really would have to buy Pansy something nice, for teaching Yordanka all these phrases. It made her at least 12.5 percent less terrifying. After much jostling and utter disregard for all Snape’s decorum lessons, Pansy, Yordanka, and Blaise trundled out onto the pavement, leaving Draco alone with the intruder. Humming to himself, Draco slowly picked up his bag - at least one Slytherin still remembered how to move with grace (“as if you had a nude, sleeping Mandrake perched on top of your head”). Twirling his wand, he inhaled deeply through his nose and cast-

“ _ Petrificus Totalus! _ ” A dull thump, a muffled “Oof!” and Potter appeared on the carriage floor.

It felt rather like being Stunned, Draco realised as he gaped down at Potter. Things  _ never _ went Draco’s way. He was  _ always _ the butt of the joke. And yet here Draco was, officially holding the upper hand over Potter and for once (for once!) his ferret sense had actually helped him!

Potter blinked up at Draco from the floor and Draco was… Draco was… Draco was far too warm. Casting the spell had caused him to work up a sweat. Even with the carriage door open it was roasting in the train and… Potter made some strange gurgling sound, half-glaring up at Draco as he fought the  _ Petrificus. _

“Give it up, Potter.” Draco gathered up the rest of his belongings. “I’ve become rather practised at casting this summer - he firmly pushed back memories of why  _ Petrificus  _ had become part of his repertoire - “and I can promise you it will hold, oh… at least a good chunk of the way back to London. You didn't hear anything I care about,” he continued, steeling himself for what he was about to do. “But while I've got you here...” He lifted his foot and stamped, hard, on Potter’s face. 

The slick snap under Draco’s heel was expected. The sick rush of regret was not. Wincing, he scuffed the blood off his shoe and pulled the invisibility cloak (of course Potter had an invisibility cloak!) up and over Potter’s face.

“That’s for my father,” he said, quietly closing the carriage door.

***

Draco’s mother had only been able to pay the coach fee up to Hogwarts. They were trying to use as little of the Dark Lord’s money as possible. Brushing off Pansy’s angry eyebrows and concerned words, Draco pulled out his broom.

“Hours trapped on that stuffy train and you all want to hop into those coffins?” He dramatically shuddered. “No thank you! I’ll see you at the hall.”

“Good idea,” said Blaise, pulling out his own broom. “I’ll come with you.”

“O-of course.” Draco stuttered, surprised and pleased at the offer. “Come on then.” He kicked off and soared towards the clouds, shivering happily as the wind whipped through his hair. “You aren’t going to try and recruit me to Dumbledore’s Arses, are you?” he asked, his heart leaping as Blaise grinned back at him. The carriages were swiftly disappearing from sight as they flew on. The castle rising up before them.

“Not unless you want me to. And not that I know anything about that.” Blaise yelled, laughing as an air current sent his broom soaring even higher. “No, I’ll leave that to the girls. They’ll wear you down.”

“They will not,” Draco’s good mood faltered slightly. Blaise’s certainty was disconcerting and misplaced. Surely? “Even if I wanted to join, you know my situation makes it impossible. Theoretically.” He remembered to clarify at the last moment.

“Nothing is impossible, Draco. We’re both proof of that.” Blaise was still laughing, his face soft and open. Draco opened his mouth to argue. Then he closed it again. Maybe Blaise was right. Maybe nothing is impossible. Maybe his mother would owl him tomorrow that the Dark Lord had moved out of the Manor. Maybe his father would be released from Azkaban. Maybe Draco was about to have the best year ever.


End file.
